


Imagined Dragons

by yumberry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, M/M, Multi, also third person is rlly weird im used to first, im doing my best, this is my first fic so pls give me feedback
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumberry/pseuds/yumberry
Summary: One hot, Texan day, young Jesse McCree met a dragon boy. But the boy was gone the next day, and Jesse grew up thinking he was only an imaginary friend. Years later, Jesse has answered the Overwatch recall, and learns that not only has Genji invited his brother to join them, but it was his brother who nearly killed him. Like any decent cowboy, Jesse takes matters into his own hands and goes to meet this brother himself. But what secret are the Shimadas keeping? What secret could warrant nearly killing your own brother?





	1. Under the Juniper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! This is the first fanfic I've ever really written, so uh, it's a lil scary. This isn't beta'd or anything, so there might be some small grammar/spelling mistakes. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please enjoy tho 」(￣▽￣」)

Jesse was out of the door the moment his ma let him. It was well past high noon, and Jesse had things to do. A Super Secret Cowboy Hideout wasn’t going to build itself.

The sun was hot and bright, and the dry grass cracked under his worn out sneakers. His dad’s old cowboy hat, much too big for Jesse, bounced on his head as he ran towards the small thicket of trees, the juniper grove.

His Hideout leaned against the largest tree, an ancient oak that was probably more dead than alive. He’d taken all the fallen juniper branches and teepee’d them against the trunk, creating a space just large enough for him and his box of toys. As he made his way towards the Hideout, Jesse gathered up suitable sticks from the ground, specifically looking for ones that still clung to their leaves.

He carefully balanced the new sticks against the old ones. Some had fallen inside, so he carefully pulled out the old, woven rug he used as a floor and shook it. Spreading it back out, he climbed inside, and pulled out his toy box from the hollow in the tree’s roots.

The first toy was a horse figurine, missing one of its ears. The next was an old toy car, from back when cars still had wheels. There was a black-clad action figure with a bat-like cape. Jesse’s pa called him Batman, which Jesse thought was a stupid name. The cape made it hard to get the figure on the horse.

Jesse spread the rest of his toys out and turned the box over to be a plateau. Yesterday, his ma had called him in just as Batman was about to find his old friend who had been kidnapped by the evil cowboys. Cowboys were _rarely_ evil, Jesse knew, but this one was the exception.

“Kapow!” Jesse yelled as Batman punched the evil cowboy. “You ain’t a real cowboy, dummy. Real cowboys don’t hurt people,” Batman said.

“Oh no, how did you find me?” said the evil cowboy.

“That ain’t your bid’ness! Where is my friend?”

“You’ll never find ‘im.”

“WHAM! Batman knocked ‘im out!” Jesse said.

“ _OW!_ ”

Jesse froze. He stared at his toys and dropped them. That hadn’t been him.

He peered out of his Super Secret Cowboy Hideout. Outside, there was another boy who Jesse had never seen before. He had long, dark hair cascading over pale skin, and weird clothes that looked like Jesse’s ma’s bathrobe. The boy was holding his foot, which was bare.

“Hello?” Jesse called out.

The boy jumped and his eyes snapped to Jesse and widened.

“Where are your shoes?” Jesse asked.

The boy blinked at him, and then said something Jesse couldn’t understand.

Jesse crawled out of his Hideout, still holding Batman. He took a step towards the boy, and the boy shied away. “Did ya step on somethin’?” Jesse asked. The boy didn’t say anything, so Jesse reached out his hand, and pressed the other hand to his chest. “Jesse,” he said.

The strange boy looked him up and down and reached out his hand until their fingers barely touched. “Jesse,” he mimicked. Jesse grinned, and the boy smiled back.

The boy’s eyes flickered up to Jesse’s hat, and Jesse’s hand followed the movement. “Cool hat, huh?” he said. “It’s a cowboy hat. I mean, not a _real_ one, because it’s from my pa. But it looks like a real one.”

“Cowboy hat,” the boy repeated in a heavy accent. Jesse nodded enthusiastically. He pulled the hat off and placed it on the boy’s head. It didn’t fit him either, and it nearly slid off the boy’s silky hair.

“Now you can be a cowboy, too. Even though you’re so pale,” he said. 

The boy ran his fingers around the hat and gave Jesse another smile. Then his eyes went to the Batman figure Jesse had put down. “What?” he asked.

Jesse picked up the figurine and handed it to the boy. “This is Batman. My pa says he’s a superhero from a really long time ago. Not a real one, though. His name is kinda dumb, and so is his cape.”

The boy turned the figurine over and over in his hands. “Cool,” he said.

“No,” Jesse said with a shake of his head. "He ain't cool, he has that dumb cape."

“Yes, cool!” said the boy with a serious face.

“Nah.”

“HAI!”

“Hello?”

The boy’s face turned as red as a tomato and his cheeks puffed out. Jesse burst out laughing, and the boy dropped Batman instantly. “Hey, hey!” Jesse said, quickly catching the poor, mistreated superhero. “He may not be cool, but ya can’t go dropping a hero.”

“Hmph!” was all the boy said. His face was still red, and he looked genuinely upset.

“I, uh,” Jesse started. He didn’t want the boy to be mad at him; they’d only just met. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He offered Batman back to the boy. The boy stared at Batman, and then at Jesse. Slowly, he took Batman back. Jesse gave a tentative smile. “You can keep him, if ya want.”

“Keep?” the boy repeated.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah, you can keep him.”

The words seemed to take a moment to process, but then the boy clutched Batman to his chest and smiled back at Jesse. Then the smile turned into a sneeze,the cowboy hat toppled to the ground, and the boy disappeared. 

In his place was a lizard, the size of a small boy, with _wings._

Wings. _A dragon._

Jesse leapt back. “Wha… what?” he stuttered.

The dragon sneezed, and the boy was back. His face was red and frantic, the pain in his foot apparently forgotten as he jumped to his feet and slapped a hand over Jesse’s mouth just before he could scream. He put a finger to his own lips: “Shh!” the boy said.

Jesse stared at the boy and slowly nodded. The boy lifted his hand away, but his eyes stayed locked on Jesse.

“What was that?” Jesse asked in a hushed voice. “Did you turn into a _dragon_?”

The boy looked near to tears. “Don’t tell,” he said. “Please.”

“It’s a secret?” Jesse asked. The boy nodded, and Jesse grinned. “Awesome! I love secrets!” Jesses started bouncing on his heels. “Can you do it again?”

The boy looked around nervously before slowly nodding. He closed his eyes, and his whole body began to shift. A wave of scales rolled over his head and down his body, and then there was a dragon in front of Jesse.

He couldn’t help but stare in awe. Now that Jesse wasn’t so shocked, he could fully take in the sight of a real life dragon. The dragon-boy’s wings unfolded and re-folded, his head tilting to the side, causing the pale blue scales to shimmer. His face was long, like that of a horse, but with lizard-like features. Fin-like scales started on his head and followed his spine down his back and all the way to the tip of the tail, which was long and curled around his clawed feet. The wings were like bat wings, and looked too small to lift the dragon-boy off the ground.

“Whoa,” Jesse whispered. “Wicked.”

The scales rolled up, and the boy was back. He shuffled from foot to foot under Jesse’s wide, awe-struck gaze. “Wicked?” he asked.

“Yeah, wicked. Like cool. Really, really cool!” Jesse explained. He couldn’t stop grinning, and it must’ve been infectious, because the boy started grinning, too.

“JESSE!”

Aw, man, of course his ma had to call him in now. Jesse rolled his eyes. The boy looked startled at the sudden yell, so Jesse gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I gotta go,” he said, reaching for the fallen cowboy hat. “You keep Batman safe for me, alright?”

The boy nodded. Jesse stood up and waved before running back home.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Jesse convinced his pa to let him run back to the juniper grove. He had to see if the dragon-boy was still there.

It was quiet and dark, and all his toys were still spread out in the Super Secret Cowboy Hideout. He’d never put them away again. The boy wasn’t there, but Jesse didn’t want to leave immediately, so he slowly put the toys back in the box, and then put the box back in-between the roots of the old oak.

The boy still wasn’t there.

Maybe he’d be back in the morning.

* * *

Jesse spent every second of his free time the next day waiting for the boy. And the next day. And the next. He waited until his ma asked what was going on, and because it was a secret, Jesse couldn’t tell her. 

He stopped waiting for the dragon boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hai" means "Yes" in Japanese.
> 
> When will I write the next chapter??? Who knows. Probably soon because I'm McHanzo trash.


	2. Drinks of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse McCree has answered the Overwatch recall, along with Tracer, Winston, Torbjörn, Reinhardt, and Mercy. Another member is returning soon, with a new friend, and news of someone else...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!!! The biggest thank you to everyone who has read the first chapter, left kudos and comments, and bookmarked!! It makes me cry a little tbh (n˘v˘•)¬

McCree woke up disoriented. First of all, he was in a bed, which had been a rare occurrence for the past few years. Second of all, it was almost familiar. He blinked his eyes open and yawned.

Ah, Gibraltar. Right. The recall. He’d only arrived last night, greeted by Winston and Tracer and Mercy, before he passed out on his old bed.

With another yawn, he pushed himself up. His pants were on the floor where he left them, but he needed a clean shirt after traveling all day yesterday. He hadn’t packed much, because he didn’t own much anymore—a vigilante constantly on the move can’t be too weighed down. He buckled his gun holster, Peacekeeper in place, put on his hat, and left to find some breakfast.

His feet remembered the way to the cafeteria perfectly. Unlike the last time he was here, however, the kitchens were empty, the tables mostly stacked against the wall except for one, which was currently occupied by Tracer.

She perked up at the sound of McCree’s spurs and waved at him. “Morning, love!” she said. “There’s some cereal and milk in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

He tipped his hat wordlessly to her and walked to the kitchen. There were several cereal boxes on the counter, dirty dishes in the sink, and skim milk in the fridge. McCree scoffed; skim milk was hardly _milk_. Calling it such was an insult to any cow, and by extension, any cowboy.

But McCree wasn’t about to eat cereal without milk, like a heathen. So he poured a bowl of cereal with the heinous skim milk and joined Tracer at her table.

Her hair was the same spiky mess he remembered, but her fingers now cradled her tea with a slight tremor that was new. Her goggles rested around her neck, even though she wasn’t in her signature Overwatch uniform. The glow of her chronal accelerator came softly through the fabric of her T-shirt and reflected in her warm brown eyes. The pale blue color of the light reminded McCree of a childhood daydream.

“You alright there, Jesse?” Tracer asked. “You don’t seem quite awake yet.”

“Ah, just lost in my thoughts,” he said. “Being back ‘ere, it’s bringing back a lot of memories.” _Shimmering scales, shifting wings…_

Tracer nodded. “I spent so much time here, and now it feels like I never left. Of course, back then it was a lot louder, wasn’t it?”

McCree chuckled. “Oh, you were a rowdy bunch. Made me glad I was hardly around y’all.”

“Oh, hush, you loved it!”

“Perhaps.”

She giggled into her tea. McCree felt a warm affection in his heart—he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Tracer. Despite her being in Overwatch and him in Blackwatch, they’d managed to become friends. She travelled through time and his sense of style was about 200 years old now. She’d found that hilarious, and had stuck to him ever since. Even in the years after Overwatch fell, they would cross paths, both trying to do something good in the world, even if it was only small things.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” Tracer said, putting her tea down a little too harshly. “Guess who’s answered the recall?”

“Uh…” McCree ran a mental checklist of all the past Overwatch members he knew. “Who?”

“Genji Shimada!”

It took a moment, but then the name clicked. Genji, the cyborg ninja whoMercy saved and had left before Overwatch fell. Gone to travel and search for himself or something. “Didn’t expect him to come back,” McCree said, raising his eyebrow.

“Me neither. But he should be back today, and he said he’s bringing his ‘master’.”

McCree wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Master…?”

Tracer shrugged. “We’ll see when they get here, I suppose.”

“JESSE!” came a booming voice. That could only be one person.

“Reinhardt,” McCree said, turning to face the giant of a man. He was even more weathered than the last time McCree had seen him, but he still stood straight and sturdy, and the ear-to-ear grin was the same. And he still called McCree by his first name. “Didn’t know you were here, too. Good to see ya.”

He slapped a large hand onto McCree’s shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you are well! What have you been doing in the past years? Getting up to no good again?”

“Well,” McCree said, tipping his hat back so he could see the giant’s face, “I gotta make money somehow, don’t I? Ran into Tracer a few times, though.”

Tracer raised her cup of tea a little. “I wouldn’t say he was up to no good, Reinhardt. McCree helped me a few times. He’s a good fella.”

Reinhardt opened his mouth and then stopped. “Why, it appears Genji has already arrived!” he declared. “Come, let us go greet him!” And the giant man was off, stomping a heavy path to the front door.

“How does he do that?” Tracer asked. “Does he have super ears?”

McCree shrugged. He pushed his empty bowl of cereal aside and stood up to follow Reinhardt. He wanted to know exactly who this “master” was, and anyways, it wasn’t in McCree’s nature to be impolite. He had good Southern sensibilities from his ma and pa, and even a run with an outlaw gang wasn’t going to change that.

Reinhardt had, of course, beaten them to the entrance hall. Torbjörn stood next to the giant figure, almost completely dwarfed by his shadow. Mercy and Winston, too, were there already, greeting the two robotic figures. One was Genji; relatively short, with matte white armor over his cybernetic body. His visor was off, showing off short, dark hair and sparkling eyes. The eyes were the most different—before, Genji had rarely, if ever, been seen without his visor. The one time McCree had seen his eyes, they’d been empty and heavy. Now, they shone with happiness and life.

Next to Genji was an omnic monk, who (if McCree were to guess) was probably the reason why Genji seemed so much happier. He had a circle of orbs _floating_ around his neck, drifting idly and spinning. Despite being an omnic, the monk was clothed, if only in baggy pants held up by a thick cord. He held his hands loosely in his lap, and dipped his head occasionally as Genji chatted excitedly.

Genji finally spotted McCree and Tracer as they walked in. McCree tipped his hat in welcome, while Tracer bolted forward in quick blinks, right into Genji’s arms in a sudden hug. He reeled for a moment before returning the hug—something the old Genji wouldn’t have done.

“Oh, Genji, it’s so good to see you!” Tracer said. “Look at you, you look so well! Oh, and is this your master?”she asked. “Excuse me, my name is Lena. Pleasure to meet you.”

The omnic monk bowed his head to her. “The pleasure is all mine. Yes, young Genji has been training with me for a few years now. You may call me Zenyatta.” The monk’s gaze traveled to McCree as he joined the group.

“Name’s McCree,” he said. He started to lift his hand to shake, but didn’t know if omnics, or monks, did that, so he let his hand fall back down. “Welcome to Overwatch.”

“Thank you,” Zenyatta said. “Genji has told me much about all of you.”

“Really?” Tracer said with an over exaggerated drawl. “What did you say about us, Genji?”

Genji smiled mischievously. “For starters, I recounted the time when you rewound into—“

“No! No, no no, we don’t need to hear about that again,” Tracer blurted out, scrambling to cover Genji’s mouth with her hands. “You little devil, you didn’t actually tell him that, did you?” she hissed.

“I assure you I don’t know what he is speaking of,” Zenyatta said.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Tracer said. Zenyatta chuckled, a robotic yet still warm sound.

“I see you two share a sense of humor,” Mercy said. “Just as Lena said, I’m so glad to see you again, Genji. Has everything been holding up?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m very well. Thank you, Angela. What about yourself? You look as if you have not aged a day.”

Mercy pressed a hand to her cheek as a slight rose color blossomed over them. “Oh, don’t you start with your flattery.”

“It’s true, Angela!” Reinhardt bellowed. “You’re as lovely as a young daisy! And just as brilliant, I’m sure.”

She waved him off. “Please, today is not about me. What are we doing still in this drafty room? We should show our new members to their rooms.”

“Yes,” said Winston, stepping forward. “Mercy and I will show you two to your rooms, and then around the base. It hasn’t changed much since you were here, Genji, but I’m sure Zenyatta would like a tour.”

“It would be appreciated,” said Zenyatta. Genji nodded in agreement, and Mercy and Winston took the lead. Reinhardt and Torbjörn followed them and then split to head to the kitchen; Tracer immediately fell into step (or… float?) with Zenyatta, but Genji lingered.

The cyborg turned to McCree. McCree wasn’t used to seeing his face, so scarred, but now it at least was happy. “I didn’t expect you to come back,” McCree said. “Figured ‘searching for ya self’ would take longer.”

“It’s good to be back,” Genji said. “I was lucky to find Master Zenyatta, and even luckier that he did not give up on me when I refused his advice the first few times. But I didn’t know if you would return, either, considering you left before Blackwatch was exposed.”

“Old habits. Abandon ship before it sinks. After a while, you see the signs long before anyone else. But… it is good to be back,” McCree said. “Now that this ship is rising out of its grave, why not see where it goes?”

Genji nodded. “I should go catch up with the ‘tour group’ before Tracer comes back to drag me there.” He saluted McCree and jogged away to catch up to his master. He walked a pace behind Zenyatta, looking completely at home with him. McCree smiled.

* * *

McCree woke with a jolt. His dream had dissolved into a nightmare, the soft shimmering blue scales turning into dark mist, rushing at him, and then he woke up. He caught his breath and reveled for a moment in the relief that it hadn’t been real. Of course it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be, it had only been an imaginary friend.

Years of being an outlaw had trained McCree to never fall asleep if he’d been startled awake, so he already knew he’d get no more rest. He rolled out of his bed, kicking the sheets aside and fumbling for his hat. He buckled his gun holster around his hips, gave Peacekeeper a pat, and left.

He was planning to take a walk around the base to clear his mind of the nightmare, but there’s soft voices coming from the lounge. McCree shuffles towards the voices, walking into a soft glow coming from the door’s dirty window. He pressed the switch, and the door slide open. Inside was Genji, Mercy, Tracer, and Torbjörn. The latter two held small glasses of what was likely alcohol, though McCree had never known Tracer to drink before.

“Oh, did we wake you?” said Mercy when she noticed McCree.

“No, I woke up of my own accord,” McCree said. No one pried as to what he meant, and so he didn’t ask why they might all be up. “Is there enough drink for another?”

“Ay,” said Torbjörn, pouring McCree a glass and passing it over. McCree took it in his mechanical hand and took the nearest open seat, which was next to Genji and across from Tracer. He took a sip, feeling the alcohol burn his throat. A comforting, grounding feeling.

“I haven’t seen you smoke since you’ve arrived,” Mercy said. “Have you finally dropped the habit?”

She’d always been on everyone’s ass about any less-than-healthy habits. “Nah, I’ve just gotten better at doing it when you ain’t around,” McCree answered with a wink.

“The people here may tolerate the the tobacco smell, but any new recruits might not,” Mercy said. “Ugh, why am I arguing with you? It’s too late for this.” She rubbed her eyes, which now McCree noticed had dark circles under them. The angelic doctor had never been one for sleeping in.

“Speaking of new recruits,” said Genji. His visor was still off, and his dark eyes gleamed in the low light. “I managed to talk to my brother again. I invited him to join us, here, if he should choose.”

Mercy’s eyes widened and she immediately leaned forward to place a hand on Genji’s forearm. “Are you sure? After what he did?”

“I have forgiven him,” Genji said solemnly. “Besides, his skills will be invaluable to our efforts. Despite his past actions, I believe him wholly trustworthy.”

“Whoa now, am I missing something?” McCree interjected. “There’s another Shimada? What are these ‘past actions’?”

Mercy and Genji shared an unreadable look.

“Look, if you expect me to work with the guy, I’d like to know what he’s done,” said McCree.

Genji sighed. “It’s only fair for them to know, Doctor Ziegler,” he said. Mercy gave him a nervous look but nodded. Genji continued, “It’s my elder brother, Hanzo. It was him who nearly killed me, and is the reason I now have this body.”

Everyone stared at him. “It was yer own _brother_?” Torbjörn exclaimed. “And yer _invitin’_ him here?”

“He only fought me because the clan ordered him to. My brother is different now, but back then, he was eager to please the rest of the Shimada’s, and followed their advice blindly. But after our fight, he left the clan. Now they hunt him down for turning his back on them.” Genji paused, taking a deep breath. “Our clan does not take kindly to any who break the ancient laws. For my brother to turn his back on our family, his future and everything he has known…” Genji looked up, eyes sweeping to meet those of everyone else, “it means more than you realize.”

McCree didn’t know what to make of the younger Shimada’s story. His own brother tried to kill him. Not that McCree had left his family on pleasant terms, but none of them had tried to kill each other. How he could forgive his brother, McCree didn’t know. Even though it wasn’t his business, McCree couldn’t help but feel anger for Genji.

“That’s one hell of a tale,” McCree said.

“I had no idea,” Tracer said softly.

“It is in the past,” Genji said. “I’ve come to peace with who I am now, and with what happened. So if my brother does decide to join us, I hope you will not harbor any anger towards him.”

“If you’ve forgiven him, then I will, too,” Tracer said. Torbjörn lifted his glass with a quiet “ay” in agreement.

McCree nodded. In his stomach, anger bubbled.

He needed to meet this brother himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genji and Winston were so hard to write (⌣_⌣”) I hope they came across okay.
> 
> A very important note: I do not agree with McCree's milk opinions. Skim milk is best.


	3. Under the Cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elder Shimada brother is reeling from recent revelations, and doesn't take too kindly to anyone following him.
> 
> Jesse thinks this man looks familiar, but it's probably just his imagination acting up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour, encore! Finally, the elder Shimada brother enters the scene~. 
> 
> I couldn't decide who's perspective I wanted this chapter to be from, so instead, you get both of their perspective!! Whoo!! I hope that isn't boring... I personally love reading characters react to each other, getting all the first impressions, so this is the kind of shit I'd love to read. Don't know about everyone else tho, lmao.
> 
> EDIT: So. My friend pointed out that there wasn't much point to having the scene repeated so I reworked it into something else. Now you get what was originally the first part of chapter 4!! Wowzers.
> 
> I hope McCree's change of mind doesn't seem to abrupt. He really just wanted to meet Genji's brother himself. He's trying to respect the fact that Genji has forgiven his brother. Also, McCree is very used to going out and doing things on his own terms (his years in the Deadlock Gang, and then as a mercenary)

Hanzo leapt the distance between the two city buildings with ease. Even though the assassination attempts had grown fewer and farther between, he still kept to the high ground whenever possible. Most people would be put off by seeing a man carrying such a serious bow and a quiver full of arrows walking around, so it was for the best.

He paused for a moment when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a child running towards the arcade. The child looked so much like Genji… or maybe that was just Hanzo’s mind, tricking him, still shocked from the recent news.

_Genji is alive._

He hadn’t killed his brother.

He was relieved, and terrified, and heartbroken, and furious. He hated his brother for not finding him sooner, he hated himself for ever listening to the Shimada elders, he hated these hands that had so easily cut down Genji.

And Genji had given him an invitation. His parting words had been vague, but then Hanzo had discovered a card slipped under his incense back in the main room. The card had been blank except for a symbol, perhaps the most recognizable symbol in the world: Overwatch.

Hanzo knew everything he could about Overwatch, since they’d been the ones to take down the Shimada clan. Of course, the Shimadas had risen back up, but for a while, there’d been a lull in the assassins sent after Hanzo. For that, he was thankful. Hanzo also knew that after Blackwatch was revealed, Overwatch was disbanded and deemed illegal. So why were they reorganizing? What could possibly warrant going against the Petras Act? When had Genji joined them? Had Genji helped take down their family clan?

His instinct told him that Genji must’ve been involved in that. The possibility made his gut twist.

Did Hanzo want to join them? He didn’t know. Did he deserve to? This grouphad done so much good in the world, even given its tarnished end. Hanzo didn’t deserve a place among such people. 

But Genji had forgiven him. Maybe he could…

No, it was stupid. He could never join them. He was not worthy of anyone’s trust. Besides, Hanzo worked better alone.

The noise of the street permeated his train of thought. Kids were laughing, cars were honking, and idle chatter created a constant white noise. His hands shook, and he gripped his bow to still them. Yes, he was better off alone.

What he had done to Genji… he couldn’t forgive himself. _His blade, chipping as it struck Genji’s. Yelling, accusations, desperate responses. Another clash…_

No! The memories were too harsh, too painful. If he dwelled on them in the waking hours, it would only make the nightmares that much worse. Even as the ghostly limbs ached on his back, Hanzo quieted the fire in his throat and leapt to the next building.

The city buildings were all but gone here, replaced with residential buildings. Hanzo scampered down the pipes and window ledges until his feet hit the ground, silently. It was evening, and the shadows were long and deep.He darted between them until he made it to the edge of town. Again, he left Hanamura, his old home, behind. The pain he felt in his heart was soothed with a quick touch to the pouch on his hip. Hanzo didn’t carry much with him, but he couldn’t part with this.

A gift from a friend was a precious thing.

The mountainous forest enveloped Hanzo quickly in its shadows. He felt more at ease among the trees, where every sound could be heard, and birds alerted the world to any intruders. They never cried when Hanzo passed through; he was used to the forest, and knew how to move through it without disturbing a thing.

Apparently, his pursuer was a complete stranger to forests, because their arrival was like a cannon blast.

“Another, so soon?” Hanzo muttered to himself. In a whirl, he hooked an arrow and shot it towards the pursuer with hardly a glance. The person dodged and Hanzo finally turns to look at them properly, another arrow already primed to fire. He caught only a glimpse of bright red ( _absolutely ridiculous_ , Hanzo thinks) and brown as the pursuer rolls to the cover of a tree. He started to open his mouth to demand who it was, but then something caught the sun. Hanzo dived down just as the gun fired.

He let the arrow fly, hoping to hit the gun out of the pursuer’s hand. But it was already gone, the pursuer dashing to another tree. Hanzo was back on his feet in an instant, notching another arrow as he ran silently to get a better angle.

_There they are_ ; the red stuck out like a target. Hanzo’s arrow flew and hit their left arm… and bounced off with the _cling_ of metal against metal. Damn, a prosthetic. The lucky fool.

The man spun to face Hanzo and fired. The bullet grazed his bare shoulder as Hanzo pulled out a scatter arrow and fired at the nearest tree. One scrapped the man’s other arm, knocking the gun out of his grip, and another hooked his red cape and pinned him to the tree.

Before he could grab his gun again, Hanzo kicked it away and held an arrow to the man’s face, point blank.

The man raised his hands in defeat. Blood trickled down his arm and stained his pants. Still, a small smile peaked out from underneath his scruffy beard. His eyes, bright hazel, looked oddly familiar. Hanzo grit his teeth.

“Who are you? Who sent you after me?” he growled.

“Whoa there, partner,” the man said in the most ridiculous accent. “You’re the one who shot first.”

“You’re the one who followed me,” Hanzo bit back.

“Ah, you got me there,” the man admitted. “You’re very hard to catch, ya know. Suppose you would be, being a Shimada and all.”

Hanzo glared at the man. “What do you know of the Shimadas?”

The man shrugged. “Perhaps I’d be more inclined to chat if you’d get that fancy arrow out of my face. I dropped my hat somewhere, and I just don’t feel right without it.”

The gun was still behind Hanzo. With a small step backwards, he swooped down and picked it up. Only then did he lower his bow. “Fine,” he said.

“Thank ya kindly,” the man said with a crooked grin. His whole body was loose, casual, as if Hanzo hadn’t been two seconds from killing him. His footsteps were stupidly loud, not helped by the fact that he seemed to be wearing actual _spurs_. As if he expected to be riding a horse sometime soon.

The man stooped down and picked up a brown hat. A _cowboy_ hat, of all things. He turned around and…

No. Impossible.

Hanzo recognized that hat. Once, he had worn it. His hand flew to the pouch on his hip, caressing the familiar shape of the cape and pointed ears through the fabric.

_Jesse_.

“How’d you know my name?” Jesse asked.

He’d said that out loud? Hanzo felt like the whole sky was crashing in around him. First his brother, and now his first and only friend. Jesse was so much… older, and he had a prosthetic arm now. But the hat was the same, as were the eyes and the crooked smile, and the ears that moved with his eyebrows, and the tilt of his head as he stared, waiting for an answer.

Oh god, how could he explain?

“I believe I asked you that first,” Hanzo said, glaring to cover any shock.

Jesse raised his eyebrows, making his ears pull slightly forward. “Suppose you did. Fair enough. I’m a… friend of your brother’s. Genji Shimada.”

* * *

“Why are you here?” the elder Shimada asked, grip tightening on his bow.

From a few steps back, McCree could fully see the man. If McCree was being honest—and a cowboy is always honest—he was a handsome man. Despite his trapezing around city roofs, his hair, black but streaked with grey, was secured neatly in a ponytail, and his beard was perfectly combed. His dark eyes gleamedwith some unreadable emotion. His left shoulder was completely exposed, revealing not only a well defined chest, but also a twisting tattoo of a dragon. McCree’s breath caught in his throat. Memories and daydreams flashed through his mind, and his hands curled into fists.

“Genji mentioned inviting his brother to join us. That was all fine and dandy, but then we learned that it was his brother that nearly killed him. Left him bleeding out on a cold, winter night,” McCree said, not missing the other’s noticeable flinch.“And while Genji says he’s forgiven you, I ain’t so ready to forget the past, even if it’s not mine. So I came by to have a little… chat, if you will.”

“A chat,” the man repeated.

“That’s right,” McCree said. “If I’m to be working with you, then I want to know who you are. Normally I wouldn’t go out to meet someone like this, but the older Shimada brother qualifies as a special case.”

“What do you wish to ‘chat’ about?”

“Well now, before we get on with that, how about some introductions? Names Jesse McCree, though you seemed to already know that.”

“Shimada Hanzo,” the man replied. He left it at that, and his harsh gaze made it clear the McCree would get no explanation as to how he knew his name.

“Hanzo,” McCree said with a sly smile. The Shimada squeezed his bow and his brow furrowed. “So, what exactly did you do to your brother?”

His eyes widened slightly and lost their focus. His expression fell, and then hardened again. “Those events are best left unsaid.”

Genji and Mercy had never explained exactly what had happened, either. All McCree knew was that Genji had been found with his abdomen slashed open, his arms hanging only by a few tendons, his legs smashed to bits. So maybe the details were best left unsaid.

“Why did you do it?” McCree asked. A bit blunt, but he doubted the archer would appreciate any beatin’ around the bush.

Hanzo looked away from McCree and picked up Peacekeeper. “The Shimada elders told me it was for the betterment of the clan. My brother was a liability to it, and they tasked me with doing away with any such ‘liabilities.’ I was naïve, and too earnest, and I did as they said. I was a fool.” He gripped McCree’s gun with shaking hands. “There has not been one day that I have not regretted it,” he said softly.

McCree was surprised with how much the man was telling him. He’d seemed more guarded than this at first. “How exactly was Genji a liability?” McCree asked.

“That is none of your business, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo said.

“What, is it confidential information? You’d tell me but than you’d have to kill me?”

Hanzo’s hand drifted to a pouch at his hip, as it had done before. The dragon tattoo contorted with the movements of Hanzo’s arms. “Yes,” he said.

McCree’s gaze traveled from his captured gun up Hanzo’s arm, taking in the dragon design. It was a blue dragon, with a long tail and large claws. McCree remembered a sunny afternoon, his juniper grove fort, an imaginary friend conjured up for only a day. His toy Batman, lost forever.

_Dragons are pretty popular, aren’t they?_ McCree thought.

For better or for worse, Genji had forgiven his brother. McCree still didn’t quite understand how he could, but at the same time, some instinct in his gut told McCree to trust Hanzo. So he grinned at the elder Shimada brother and said, “So, you going to join Overwatch?”

“I doubt you would welcome me,” Hanzo said.

McCree waved his hand dismissively. “A little interrogation don’t mean that.”

“So, what, my answers met your requirements?”

“You could’ve gone on about how great it felt to kill your brother,” McCree pointed out. “Genji said you left the clan, but that could’ve been for a lot of reasons.”

“Perhaps I lied to you. Perhaps I really am a monster who relishes in killing,” Hanzo sneered.

McCree raised his eyebrow. “I think myself a good judge of character.” He stuck out his hand. “How about it?”

Hanzo stared at McCree’s hand, and then at McCree’s hat. He took a deep breath, and then tossed Peacekeeper back to the cowboy. “We shall see,” he said, turning around. He began to walk away, each foot fall totally silent. He paused, turned back to McCree, and said, “Do not follow me, or I will make you regret it.”

McCree tipped his hat to the receding figure.


	4. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bad dreams, some familiar faces, some apologies. Genji makes The Worst™ grammar joke because lbr, when you learn another language, you can't help but notice how stupid it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood and general violence. 
> 
> I don't really know what I'm doing!!! Help me!!! 
> 
> Enjoy!!!

_Your brother is a danger to the Shimada clan,_ the elders had said. _He uses his gifts without care. He uses them in front of the non-magical. He will expose us all, and destroy that which we have upheld for millennia. As the new leader of the Shimada clan, it is your duty to dispose of any such dangers. Take your father’s sword, blue dragon, and reap what your brother was sowed._

The sword chipped as a struck against Genji’s. The force sent vibrations up Hanzo’s arm, but he only tightened his grip. Genji was yelling, telling him to stop. _Genji brought this on himself. He’ll only destroy our family if I let him leave,_ Hanzo told himself.

Genji leapt back and tossed his wakizashi at Hanzo, forcing him to duck. In that moment, Genji shifted, green scales cascading over him and wings spreading out, pushing down in a powerful ascent. A desperate escape.

Hanzo ran and jumped, and the scales washed over him in mid air. His wings, larger and more powerful than his younger brother’s, spread out and launched him into the air after Genji. Hanzo roared, fire bellowing from his nostrils as his jaw clamped down on Genji’s wing.

_I must do this. I have to do this. For the clan!_

He wrenched his head to the side, tearing the sensitive skin of the wing. Genji roared in pain and his wings instinctively locked against his body. He plummeted, and Hanzo went with him.

Genji grappled desperately against Hanzo as they fell. His claws grabbed at Hanzo’s throat, trying to pull him away. Hanzo hissed, and fire poured from his mouth and seared the tattered wing in his jaw. Genji’s roar turned into a wail and Hanzo twisted them around in the air, scratching his claws down his brother’s chest as the two crashed to the dark ground.

Genji took the brunt of the impact and screamed as his other wing bent under him. Hanzo finally released the other wing, which was bleeding profusely. His once blue scales were painted red with blood. Blinded by blood and the words of the elders, Hanzo bit at Genji’s throat and threw his brother’s body against the wall of the Shimada estate. Blood and fire dribbled out of Genji’s mouth, and the scales retracted.

His brother’s human form lay motionless on the ground, his chest ripped open and his arms nearly ripped off. Hanzo snarled and stalked over to Genji, disgusted at the sight of his brother so broken and weak and pathetic.

_Brother,_ Genji coughed out. _Brother, why?_

Hanzo jolted awake in cold sweat, clutching at the bow in his lap. The nightmares were back; he had foolishly thought he had left them behind a few years ago.

Foolish, indeed. As if Hanzo ever deserved any peace from the horror of what he did. He could still feel the cooling, sticky blood over his scales.

He dug his nails into his arm. No, he didn’t deserve any peace.

* * *

It was two weeks later when a certain Shimada arrived at Gibraltar. He came without warning—suddenly, the alarms were going off, and everyone rushed to the front door. Genji and Tracer stepped outside, guns and shirukens at the ready.

Genji dropped his offensive pose and pulled off his visor. His mouth pulled into a surprised smile, and he bounded forwards. “Brother!” he yelled.

Everyone followed the excited Shimada outside, and there, seeming to barely tolerate Genji’s embrace, was Hanzo Shimada. This time, McCree noticed, wearing the other half of his shirt.

“Is this your brother, then?” Tracer asked, blinking forward.

“Yes,” Genji said, finally releasing his bear hug. “I didn’t really expect him to come.”

“As you can see, I did,” Hanzo said tersely. His eyes glanced over the rest of the group who still stood back a bit, pausing a second longer on McCree. He tipped his hat and winked, and Hanzo glared. Okay, he deserved that.

Genji gestured for Hanzo to follow him and walked back to the group. Winston stepped forward. “Hello,” he said, fiddling with his glasses nervously. “My name is Winston. I presume you are the older Shimada brother?”

“Yes,” Hanzo said. He placed his hands together and bowed slightly. “Shimada Hanzo. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The bow seemed to fluster Winston, because he nearly knocked his glasses off his face. “Oh, well, excellent! Genji was very excited at the idea of you joining us. That… is why you’re here, right?”

“If you will have me,” Hanzo replied.

“Of course!” Reinhardt exclaimed. “The more the merrier in this business! Welcome to Overwatch!” He broke into boisterous laughter and clapped a hand against Hanzo’s back. Hanzo visibly tensed, and his hand went to the pouch at his hip. What was in there?

The group brought Hanzo into the base, and Genji and Winston went to show him to his new room. He didn’t have much with him—only what McCree had previously seen him carrying. When had he left to come here? He even seemed to be wearing the same clothes.

“An archer,” Mercy remarked from behind McCree. He turned to face her. “Not what I expected to see in this day and age.”

“Can ya really say that when you’re part of the biggest bunch o’ misfits this side of the galaxy?” McCree said with a smirk. “Really, darling. We already have a monkey and a cowboy, and an archer surprises you?”

Mercy chuckled. “I like to think I’ve kept my sense of wonder through the years.”

“It’s like Genji said, love,” Tracer said. “You haven’t aged a day!”

* * *

As luck would have it, Hanzo’s room was next to McCree’s. McCree found this out when later that day he was walking to his room, and was nearly slammed by the door as Hanzo flung it open.

“Whoa there,” McCree said, just managing to lift his hands up to catch the door. It clanged loudly against his metal hand. “You got somethin’ against doors, Shimada?”

Hanzo looked startled to see him. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a less than friendly tone.

“Well, that’s my room,” McCree explained, pointing to the next door over. “Apparently, we’re gonna be neighbors.” He grinned at Hanzo.

Hanzo fumed. “Unfortunate,” he muttered before walking away briskly.

McCree would’ve felt insulted, but again, it was probably well deserved. He _had_ shot at the man after following him for several blocks. Had he apologized for that? He should probably do that.

He spun on his heels and jogged after Hanzo. The Shimada could definitely hear him coming—spurs weren’t exactly stealth gear—but he gave no indication that he did. McCree fell into step next to him and walked with him until Hanzo finally sighed and turned to McCree.

“Is there a reason you’re following me again?”

“I wouldn’t call that following,” McCree said. “I was taking a stroll with my new teammate.” Hanzo glared at him. McCree cleared his throat. “I wanted to… apologize for, ya know, shootin’ at ya in Japan. I know I ain’t the most diplomatic of folks, but when you’ve spent so many years as an outlaw, constantly lookin’ over your shoulder, ya get used to takin’ matters into your own hands.”

He paused, and Hanzo continued staring at him, hardly blinking. “Right, so, uh, I apologize for that whole bid’ness.”

Hanzo took a deep breath. “Apology accepted. Now please, leave me in peace.”

“Sure thing,” McCree said. Hanzo walked away with hands curled into fists. He glanced over his shoulder a few feet away as if to make sure McCree was finally going to leave him alone. McCree tipped his hat and turned back to his room, whistling an old tune.

“McCree.”

Genji stood, leaning against McCree’s bedroom door. His visor was off, his sword no where in sight. McCree sighed. “Can’t a man just get to his room without ninjas getting in his way?”

“Nope,” Genji replied with a smirk.

McCree waved his hand and fumbled for a cigar. He lit it and balanced it with ease between his lips. “So what do you want?”

“I heard your conversation with my brother,” he said. He tapped his left ear, which was made of metal. “Cyborg hearing. You mentioned being in Japan. Mind explaining?”

McCree let out a puff of smoke. “S’nothin’. Just wanted to have a little talk with your brother before he came here. Didn’t rightly like the thought of him joining after I heard about… ya know.”

“Did it not cross your mind that that is not your business?” Genji said with the cock of an eyebrow.

McCree shrugged. “It’s my bid’ness if I’m to be working with the guy. Now, I’m no stranger to people with a less than agreeable past, and it gave me a good judgement of character. When you’re a mercenary, all you’ve got to trust is your own head and gut, so yeah, I wanted to check out this brother of your’s myself. Call it an old habit. I thought it proved rather enlightening.”

Genji shifted his weight and stood upright. “Understandable,” he said with a slow nod. “I must ask, though: what was ‘enlightening?’”

“For one, I asked Hanzo why he did what he did.” McCree stopped there, waiting for a response from Genji.

Genji nodded again. “And?”

“He said it was because you were a ‘liability.’ Didn’t say to what, though. I’ve got to admit, that piques my interest a considerable amount.”

“My brother is correct,” Genji said, taking McCree by surprise. “The elders would have seen me as a liability. I could’ve been one. There is a reason no one besides my brother and I have ever left the clan alive.” He looked McCree in the eye with a steady gaze. “But the details I cannot share with you, Jesse McCree.” He raised a hand when McCree opened his mouth to protest. “I say this not because I fear some further punishment, or because of any lingering loyalty to the Shimada clan. It is something bigger than just myself, and thus I am not at leisure to share it with you. Forgive me.”

McCree bit down on the cigar. He didn’t know what to make of all that. “Sounds like a pretty hefty secret, then.”

Genji gave him an amused smile.

“Can I get to my room now, please?” McCree asked.

“I don’t know, can you?” said Genji with a self-satisfied smirk.

McCree rolled his eyes. “In a shocking turn of events, I can’t, as there’s this pesky ninja in my way. So if you’d kindly move your cyborg butt, it would be much appreciated.”

Genji laughed but stepped out of the way, saluting McCree as he sauntered away. McCree saluted back before finally stepping into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor McCree. Ninjas keep getting in his way.


	5. The Last Crusader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree's first mission back at Overwatch. Time to see just what this archer can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a long time looking up the stories behind all the maps. I don't even know if I got the correct stories, but it's what I'm going with.

“Is everyone ready?” Winston asked for the millionth time. Hanzo nodded seriously, Reinhardt gave an enthusiastic, “JA!” and Mercy readjusted her wings for the millionth time before nodding. McCree pulled his hat down farther, trying to get it as secure as possible.

“It’s unlikely anyone will be there,” Winston continued, “but stay on your toes. Reinhardt won’t be able to do much, since he’ll be carrying the battering ram…”

Reinhardt hefted up said ram, as if they hadn’t all seen it before.

“Beginning descent!” Tracer said from the pilot’s seat. “Everyone hang on tight!”

The carrier tipped into a sharp decline, and McCree hastily grabbed on to a strap dangling from the ceiling. They had to get in and out as quickly as possible; Einchenwalde may have been abandoned, but that meant that the sound of their carrier would be that much more noticeable and out of place.

“Aaaaand touchdown!” Tracer yelled as the carrier stopped with a jolt. “Sorry for the harsh landing, loves.”

The main door dropped open and everyone grabbed their weapons. Winston pushed up his glasses and said, “Alright, then. Team, move out!”

McCree was out the door first, Peacekeeper ready to take down any unfriendlies who’d come to investigate the noise. Hanzo drifted after him, his footsteps ghostly silent, an arrow already drawn. He fired it at one of the many moss-covered houses, several yards ahead. McCree was confused until he saw the faint blue pulse emanating from the arrow. He let out a low whistle. Fancy tech.

“Area is clear,” Hanzo said into the comm.

Reinhardt exited next, his footsteps heavy and loud like drumbeats. The battering ram was balanced on the shoulder of his armor, and Mercy hovered behind him, her staff in hand and her pistol at her hip. She would be staying with him as much as possible, they had decided. Hanzo had disappeared, probably to find higher ground. McCree remembered seeing him jumping between roofs in Japan; the archer was quite the free-runner.

He caught a glimpse of movement between two chimneys. Another of Hanzo’s fancy sonic arrows whizzed past McCree and landed a block ahead. Still no sign of anyone else.

“This is almost too good to—“ Mercy started.

McCree cut her off. “Don’t jinx it, sugar.”

“I forgot you’re superstitious,” she replied with a small smile.

“If you wanna test the fates, be my guest. Just not while I’m around,” McCree said, twirling his gun absentmindedly. Turning his attention to a rather solemn Reinhardt, he asked, “You alright there, big guy?”

“Ay,” he said with a grunt of effort. “This is a sad place to be.”

McCree nodded sympathetically. Eichenwalde had been the last stand of the Crusaders, making Reinhardt the only one left. All his teammates, friends, had died here because help hadn’t come fast enough. McCree knew Reinhardt partly blamed himself, even though there was nothing he could’ve done. He’d been working with Overwatch at the time, and was probably half way across the world when the battle took place. _This must be his first time back here since the initial aftermath_ , McCree figured.

Hanzo’s voice snapped McCree back to the present. “Movement ahead,” he said into the comm. “I will try to get a better view.”

Mercy wrung her staff nervously in her hands. “Be careful, Hanzo,” she said. Reinhardt shifted the battering ram and reached out a protective hand to provide Mercy with as much cover as possible. The three of them were around a corner and down the street from Hanzo, but they didn’t know who was out there.

McCree peeked his head around the corner and, seeing nothing, motioned for the other two to continue. He stepped slowly and carefully, rolling his feet in just the right way to make the spurs not clink. Even if everyone could hear Reinhardt coming by his booming footsteps, they didn’t need to know that McCree was there, too. Peacekeeper was steady at chest height, and his other hand ghosted over his next pack of bullets.

“Three foot soldiers and one unarmed,” Hanzo reported. “They are heading east, away from the castle.”

“I don’t think we can avoid a conflict,” McCree said. “It’s a darn shame, but unless we want to stop moving for _god knows_ how long, we can’t sneak past. Reinhardt’s like a one-man marching band.”

“Do you see any symbol or logo on them?” Mercy asked.

“No, they do not have any visible affiliation,” Hanzo answered.

“Then they aren’t necessarily our enemies,” Mercy said, with a pointed look to McCree. He held up his hands in concession.

“They are talking about a reported spotting of a… Ba.. a Bas-john in the forest,” Hanzo said, struggling over the word. McCree almost chuckled.

“A Bastion unit,” Reinhardt clarified. “That’s not possible. All the Bastions were destroyed.” His face was setting into a deep frown. No one had a fond opinion of Bastion units—most people were downright terrified of them, and for good reason—but for one to be here, where the Crusaders were demolished by those exact omnics… well, Reinhardt looked downright offended.

“That’s not our business,” Mercy said with relief. “None of us are wearing Overwatch symbols, so even if we cross paths, they won’t know we’re Overwatch. They have no reason to come after us.”

If it had been anyone else, McCree would be getting an earful of _told-ya-so_ ’s, but this was Mercy. She avoided conflict wherever possible, both the violence kind and the verbal kind. “Alright then, we should carry on,” McCree said. With a deep intake of breath, Reinhardt restarted his march.

They were nearly at the castle when Hanzo rejoined them. He appeared next to McCree as if out of thin air, making the cowboy jump. He aimed his bow high and shot another sonic arrow through a window. Then he ran at the wall and jumped and deftly climbed up the stone exterior. Thoroughly impressed, McCree watched him slip through the window. When he climbed, he looked lighter than air.

“Impressive,” Mercy said.

“You can say that again,” McCree agreed.

“Stand back, friends,” Reinhardt warned. Once Mercy and McCree had stepped far enough away, he brought the ram off his shoulders, swung it back, and then flung it forwards with impossible strength. The great wooden doors shuttered and creaked, but stayed up. He pulled back and swung forward again with a huge, heavy step; the ram flew through the wood as the door splintered and burst. “Ah, I feel so much lighter!” Reinhardt said, rolling his shoulders and stepping into the castle. It was dark, and a cloud of dust was rising out of the doorway. If Balderich von Adler, the deceased leader of the Crusaders, was really still in here, they’d be able to smell him soon enough.

McCree spotted the gleam of one of Hanzo’s arrows as the Shimada hopped between rafters. He seemed more at home in the high shadows, where even if someone did see him, no one could reach him.

“I see the target,” Hanzo said. “There’s no one else in the immediate area.”

“Good. Then perhaps this unhappy business can be laid to rest sooner,” Reinhardt said. He overtook Mercy and McCree with only two steps. Mercy spread out the wings of her Valkyrie suit and glided forward effortless, leaving McCree to jog to keep up.

They rounded the corner and into the smell of decomposing flesh and muscle. It was disgusting and overwhelming, causing McCree to pull the edge of his serape over his nose. There Balderich von Adler was, slumped in the ancient throne, his giant hammer still at his side.

“There you are, my old friend,” Reinhardt said to his past leader. They only needed to retrieve the armor and hammer, but Reinhardt picked up Balderich’s body with gentle care that said, clearly, he would not be leaving the dead Crusader’s body behind. Mercy reached up and put a comforting hand on Reinhardt’s elbow. He smiled at her and turned around.

“We have company,” Hanzo said.

“What? Is it the folks from before?” McCree asked, looking around for any sign of movement.

“No, I do not think so. I saw a ship coming down outside. It bears the symbol of Talon.”

“Shit,” McCree muttered under his breath. He looked to Mercy and Reinhardt.Should Reinhardt put Bladerich down and fight until they were clear? Or should he make a run (or… fast walk) for their ship? “How many?” McCree asked Hanzo.

“I don’t have a clear view, but at least five soldiers,” Hanzo said. “What is the plan?”

Mercy gave McCree a look, her hand still on Reinhardt’s elbow. The big guy was not going to put down his late leader’s body. McCree took in a deep breath. “Mercy and Reinhardt, you two should head back for the ship. Hanzo, you and I’ll run distraction. Keep ‘em running around while our compatriots here get back to everyone else.”

“I should come with you two,” Mercy said. “You’ll be the ones under fire.”

McCree gave her and overconfident smile. “No worries, darlin’. I can be fast when I want to. And I’m sure our archer friend can hold his own.”

“We will handle the situation,” Hanzo said.

“See?” McCree said. “So get goin’ before our company arrives.”

Mercy sighed, then nodded her head. Reinhardt took off at a steady march, slightly faster than he had been with the ram, and Mercy followed. McCree watched them turn around the corner just as Hanzo landed behind him.

“They comin’ our way?” McCree asked, spinning the barrel of his Peacekeeper to make sure every slot was taken with a fresh bullet.

Hanzo nodded curtly. “They will be here in a minute. I suggest we try to flank them to draw their attention away from the castle. It is best if they do not see us in here.”

“Yer probably right, partner,” McCree agreed. “You take the high road, I’ll take the low road?”

He only received another nod, and then the Shimada was off, scaling the wall like it was ground. Apparently he didn’t know that ol’ music references. What a disappointment. McCree whistled the tune under his breath as he made for a side exit.

The sun was much lower than he’d expected. The red disk hung barely over the lip of the forest and sent long shadows through the overgrown town. McCree scanned the skyline for Hanzo, but he had disappeared. McCree slipped into the shadows of a house and listened for the group of Talon soldiers.

They weren’t quiet, that was for sure. They’re footfalls were so loud it rang of egotism, as if they thought they owned the ground beneath their feet. He was reading too much into it, McCree knew, but damn his trigger finger was itchin’.

He slipped around a young tree and across a cobbled street. He shimmied through the gap between two houses and just managed to get behind an abandoned car when the Talon soldiers came into view. There were eight of them, all carrying various weapons, from handguns to plasma rifles. Why were they here?

“Got visual,” he whispered into his comm.

“I, as well,” Hanzo replied. “Are you behind cover?”

“Yes…?”

“Good. Stay down.”

Before McCree could question, there was the sound of metal chipping stone, and then of a thousand arrows flying, and of the soldiers yelling. He heard the distinct thud of a body hitting the ground, though whether they were dead or not, McCree didn’t know.

Not knowing if Hanzo was going to do another one of… whatever that was, again, McCree quickly said, “I’m jumpin’ out!”

He rolled out from his cover and shot at the nearest figure, taking aim in an instant and landing a bullet right in between the poor fella’s shoulder blades. The soldier let out a cry that turned into a gurgle, and then his body hit the ground. The other soldier’s spun towards the gunshot. One hardly had time to take in the sight of an actual _cowboy_ in front of him before an arrow pierced straight through his gut, and another through his shoulder. Thud, another down.

Three down, five to go.

The others were firing before their buddy fell. McCree dropped and rolled to another tree. Bullets caught his serape, but what was another hole or two? He slid another bullet into the barrel just as one of the soldiers rounded the tree and leveled a gun to McCree’s face.

But like any half-decent cowboy, McCree was fast on the draw. He braced the gun against his metal hand and released the entire barrel at once, fanning the hammer point blank into the soldier’s chest. He toppled back from the force of it, solidly dead. McCree flicked six fresh bullets out of his pouch and slide them into their slots with practiced speed.

There was the distinct muffled thunk of an arrow hitting the tree. That had to be the first time McCree had ever known Hanzo to miss. He didn’t have time to dwell it, though. He jumped out from behind the tree and shot.

It hit the soldier in his arm, making him drop his weapon. With a well placed kick, McCree knocked the breath out of him. The soldier stilled on the ground, stunned but alive. He’d deal with that one later.

One soldier had disappeared, but the other two had reloaded and were aiming at McCree. The left one hissed something in a foreign language before firing; two grenades burst from the gun and whirled towards McCree. He ducked at the last second. As he dropped, he grabbed a little present from his belt and tossed it at their feet.

Bright light exploded and McCree quickly pulled his hat over his eyes. When he stood back up, the two soldiers were blinking furiously and stumbling, off balance, their guns whipping around as if to find their target. Two bullets, one between each pair of eyes, and the Talon agents dropped dead.

“Cleared ‘em,” McCree said into the comm.

No response.

“Hanzo? You hear me?” he asked, concern prickling his stomach.

“Of course I hear you. You are incredibly loud. You render the comms nearly pointless.”

McCree let out a small sigh of relief at the sound of the Shimada’s voice. His bow appeared over the crest of a house, and then the rest of Hanzo followed, sliding down the roof and landing on the street like he weighed nothing. The dragon tattoo gleamed as if it were made of gold, as if the dragon was actually moving over his skin.

“One of the agents decided to fight me personally,” Hanzo continued. “Archery is not meant for close combat.”

Ah, that’s where the other had gone. “Left one alive,” McCree said, jabbing his thumb to the soldier who was still struggling to get his breath. “Figured we should find out why Talon was here.”

Hanzo raised one perfectly poised eyebrow. “Is that wise? I thought the reformation of Overwatch was supposed to remain unknown.”

McCree shrugged. “Talon’s the reason we’re reformed at all. They’d find out sooner or later. Might as well get information from them while we can.” He strolled over to the Talon soldier and picked the man up by the back of his collar. The man groaned and coughed, but still seemed too stunned to fight. “So, partner, wanna tell us what Talon was doin’ here in ol’ Eichenwalde?”

The man spit at McCree’s face and said something in another language that sounded very much like a curse. “I’ll tell you nothing, bastards,” he finally growled in English.

Hanzo grabbed the man by his neck, ripping him from McCree’s grasp, and pinned him against the tree. “You will tell us everything you know,” Hanzo threatened. He drew an arrow out, slowly, from his quiver and pressed the sharp edge into the man’s gunshot wound. The man bit his lip to stifle a cry of pain.

“You think no one would notice Overwatch returning?” the man said. “ _Mösstock,_ we have been watching you shitters since day one!”

“Is that so?” McCree drawled. “Y’all came a little late to this party.”

The man snarled but said nothing. Hanzo plunged the arrow head into the bullet wound and the man screamed. A slew of curses flew from his mouth.

McCree’s comm fizzed. “Jesse, you still down there?” came Tracer’s voice. “We best be leaving soon. Reinhardt’s starting to get weepy.”

“Yeah, ran into one or eight little problems,” McCree responded. “Archer and I’ll start headin’ back once we take care of this last one.”

“I’ll start the engines. See ya soon, love,” Tracer said.

“Ya got that, Hanzo?” McCree said. 

Hanzo nodded, still holding the man by his neck. “I do not think we will get this agent to speak more before we are forced to leave.” He let go of the man, who dropped to the ground in a heap. “Let us depart.” He wiped his hand on the side of his shirt, as if trying to get rid of the impression of the man’s neck. He strode past McCree, ponytail barely reaching McCree’s nose.

He turned to follow the Shimada when he heard a rustle of fabric. He spun, Peacekeeper raised, and shot the Talon agent right in the chest as he brought up his gun. “We tried bein’ reasonable,” McCree said to the dying man. “But you just had to sour it up.”

“McCree,” Hanzo said. “Do not waste words on the dead. Our allies are waiting for us.”

“Right behind ya, darlin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was originally going to be another scene in here but then the ending was just NOT cooperating and it turned out a disaster SO. That'll be next time.
> 
> Anyways I'm dead so I'm going to crawl into bed for 50 years, see ya then.


	6. Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinks on Reinhardt! And a brand new person joins Overwatch--a certain flying Egyptian ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally googled "wild west books" to find a book for Jesse. I have never read anything about the wild west. Anything I know about it comes from Back to the Future.

Balderich von Adler was set to be buried in the morning, under the rising sun. The armor was removed from the old crusader and taken to Winston’s lab for him and Torbjörn to study. They had tried to explain to everyone before the mission why this armor was so important, but it all went right over McCree’s head. What had really mattered, from his point of view, was how much Reinhardt wanted to recover the body of his old leader. Reinhardt had held on to Balderich the whole flight back and told him of how the omnic war had ended. He told him the last stand of the Crusaders had not been in vain, that they had lost the battle but one the war. It had been a sad and somber ride.

So it was to everyone’s surprise when Reinhardt was the one to pull out his stock of German beers for celebratory, post-mission drinks. “Finally, my old friend is laid to rest,” he said as he handed out the bottles. “This is cause for happiness! Merriment! Drink with me in the memory of the glorious Balderich von Adler!”

Six bottles lifted from the table and came down half empty. Tracer immediately burped and bursted into giggles, and Reinhardt (not to be outdone by the speedy Brit) let out a belch that no one could hope to rival. Torbjörn started mumbling old drinking songs, and Reinhardt and Mercy tried to follow along.

McCree had not expected Hanzo to take the beer. Such an overly controlled, pristine, precise man didn’t seem the type to drink. But while the Shimada did make a look of slight disgust at the taste of the beer, he was as fast a drinker as Reinhardt. McCree was impressed, and then concerned, and then impressed again as the alcohol hazed over his thoughts.

The dragon tattoo was swimming in McCree’s vision by the time most everyone had gone to bed. Only he, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, and Hanzo remained, the latter of which was starting to look too drunk to walk. 

It was well past midnight, and the Spanish summer made the air hot and heavy and humid. It felt almost like nights back home as a kid, McCree thought. West Texas had hardly ever been this humid, and there were bugs always buzzing off in the trees. Here, there was no background hum of cicadas and grasshoppers. McCree missed it.

“It’s too damn silent here,” he slurred out. “Where’d da bugs?”

“Bugs? Where?” Reinhardt asked.

“Exactly!” McCree said. He rested his head against the cool metal table. The beer was starting to make his head pound. “Back home, there’d be all sorts a’ buzzin’.”

“In Santa Fe?” Reinhardt asked.

If he had been sober, McCree would’ve been a little touched the Crusader remembered where he was from. “Nah, nah, I mean _home_ home. Back when I was a little… a little thing. Hardly remember it.”

“In my old home, too,” Hanzo said. “It was the same. I miss it.”

McCree’s blurry vision shifted to the Shimada and stayed there, lazily taking in the sight of his drunken red face. His hands were clasped around his beer bottle, and he was staring into it as if it were a portal to the past. “Hey, archer,” McCree said, eyes gliding down the exposed tattoo. “What with the dragon?”

Hanzo glanced up, weary eyes meeting McCree’s. “Dragons…” he started, “are the blood of my family; our crest, our inheritance.” His dark brown eyes were warm and heavy with alcohol, as well as some unreadable emotion.

“Noble creatures, dragons!” Reinhardt said. “Oh, how I’d love to fight one!”

“Good luck fightin’ a myth,” Torbjörn said.

Hanzo pushed his half finished beer away and stood up. “I shall take my leave. Good night.” And he was gone before anyone could speak.

McCree looked from his lukewarm beer to Hanzo’s abandoned one. Reinhardt and Torbjörn had hardly noticed the Shimada leaving. McCree stood up. “I think I’ll retire for the night, too,” he said. Neither of the other two noticed, and he left their boisterous conversation behind.

He dreamt of bugs, of the year all the cicadas came out and covered the ground. He woke up to sunlight pouring through his window and angry shouting. McCree groaned and pushed his blankets away, nearly falling on his face when his foot caught on them. He opened his door just in time for Hanzo’s to slam shut, Genji stomping away from the scene like a toddler.

Sibling arguments. McCree yawned.

Still in his pajamas, McCree headed for the cafeteria. He walked blindly to the fridge, grabbing the (slightly less heinous 2%) milk and a box of bland cereal. The dishes in the sink indicated that someone had made a syrupy breakfast, but McCree had woken up too late for it.

Voices started approaching the caf as McCree took a seat. There were now three tables set up, as opposed to the sole one before. He kicked his feet up on another chair and turned in time to see Mercy and Torbjörn walk in with…

McCree almost dropped his cereal. She looked so much like Ana. When had she grown up to be so tall and strong? His feet were on the floor, his bowl on the table, and he barreled towards her. Her eyes lighted upon him at the last moment and lit up with recognition.

“Fareeha!”

He swept her up into a hug and she let out a squeal that turned into pure laughter. She was, of course, much heavier than when she’d been 8, but McCree didn’t care if he broke his back.

“Hello, Jesse!” Fareeha said as he finally put her down. “I figured you would’ve answered the recall.”

“You know each other?” Mercy asked. Her golden hair was a mess around her face, and she was still wearing slippers.

“Yes,” Fareeha answered, clapping a hand on to McCree’s shoulder. She was as tall as him now. “Back when I was a child, I knew a handful of my mother’s coworkers. Jesse was one of them. And how could I forget such a fantastic cowboy?”

“Damn right ya can’t,” McCree said. “Lord Almighty, Fareeha, you shot up like a bean sprout.”

“I dare say I’m taller than you now,” she replied with a smirk, straightening her posture. Her eyes gleamed with a sense of mischief that she inherited from her ma.

“You wish,” McCree said, pressing his hand down on her head and ruffling her hair.

Fareeha whacked his arm off playfully before turning back to Mercy. “The lovely Doctor Zeigler was showing me around the base, and we came here for some lunch.”

“Please, you can call me Angela,” Mercy said. Was that a slight blush McCree saw on her cheeks? She quickly composed herself. “McCree, are you really eating cereal for lunch?”

“It ain’t lunch if I just got up,” he said. Mercy sighed and looked ready to give him a lecture about proper sleeping habits, but Fareeha asked her where the kitchen was, and her attention instantly switched over. That left McCree with his previously abandoned, and now horribly soggy, bowl of cereal.

He hardly tasted it, too distracted by the conversation carrying over from the kitchen. She even sounded like her ma. McCree had never known Fareeha’s father, since the bastard had left Ana the moment he learned she was pregnant. He wondered now how much like her father Fareeha was; all McCree saw was her mother. Strong, sharp, intimidating, and too brave for her own good.

Far too brave. Bravado like that can earn you an early trip to death’s front door. Fareeha should know that. McCree could only hope she wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Of course, she wouldn’t be her mother’s daughter if she didn’t.

When he passed by Fareeha and Mercy on his way to the sink, there was no mistaking it: Mercy was absolutely blushing. Normally the doc was the picture of serenity, but now she was turning into a fluttery pink mess at the simple touch of Fareeha’s hand on her arm. Passing behind Mercy, McCree caught Fareeha’s eye, pointed at Mercy and winked. She winked back.

The first day after a mission was always set aside for relaxation, baring any other pressing matters. Back in the heyday, folks would often use their post-mission days to destress. Most free-time was spent training or debriefing, so these were holy days. Overwatch agents would head for the sunny Gibraltar beaches en masse, taking over large swaths of the shoreline.

Now, McCree doubted he could get away with a beach day. This base was supposed to be abandoned (except for the local scientist gorilla, who didn’t exactly have anywhere else to return to. The moon is a… bit of a mess, still) and McCree’s face was on nearly every wanted list in the Western hemisphere. True, if he ditched the hat he’d be near unidentifiable, but pigs would sooner fly before McCree willfully went sans hat.

So instead of grabbing the swimming trunks, McCree grabbed his sole book: _Lonesome Dove,_ by Larry McMurtry. The best Western by any standards, and the best book of all by McCree’s. His copy was worn and tired looking, the soft cover bent and ripped and tapped back together with care. Tracer had once accused him of taking the cowboy thing too far (“Do you ever do anything that isn’t cowboy themed, Jesse?”). 

_Reminds me of home, s’all,_ McCree had told her.

Even if he couldn’t go to the beach, that didn’t mean McCree couldn’t get any sun. There were plenty of sunny spots on the roof to loiter around, and he fully intended on taking one for the afternoon.

Tracer had, apparently, had the same idea. She was lying on a beach towelcovered bench, sunglasses in place of her usual goggles and a magazine on her lap.She wore leggings and an old tank top, her coronal accelerator, as always, strapped over it. At the sound of McCree’s footsteps, she tilted her head over the bench to look at him upside down. “Afternoon, love,” she greeted. “Someone’s a bit of a sleepy head.”

“Yeah, yeah, not everyone can rise with the sun like you,” McCree replied, finding a worn out bench next to Tracer. More than half the rooftop was permanently encased in shadow—that’s what happened when you built into a cliffside. Where sun did manage to reach, ivy grew. Up the walls, around the corners, over the windows. Despite the smooth, metallic surface of the base, the little creepin’ plants somehow found enough purchase to climb all the way up to the roof.

McCree adjusted his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. The sunlight was a pleasant warmth on his shoulder and legs, seeping through his muscles and all the way to his bones. He sighed contently.

“I forgot how nice it is up here,” Tracer said. “I do miss the beach, though. A right shame we can’t go.”

McCree nodded and gave her a slight _hmm_ of agreement. Down below, he saw Reinhardt exiting the building, dressed in a suit. Shit, he’d slept through the funeral. Not that he’d known Balderich van Adler at all, but McCree was going to go anyways, for Reinhardt’s sake.

Tracer must’ve had mind-reading powers, or else she also spotted the large Crusader, because she said, “No worries, mate. Everyone knows you sleep late. Reinhardt won’t be miffed at you.” She stretched, long limbs reaching far past the ends of the bench. “‘Sides, Hanzo didn’t go either. Of course, I don’t think anyone really expected him to. Bit of a loner, isn’t he? At least I reckon so.”

“You’re probably on ta something there,” McCree said. “Still feel bad about missing the big man’s funeral.”

“It was super early in the morn, to be fair. I went right back to bed afterwards.”

“What? Our own Lena Oxton, the gal with a nuclear generator for a heart, took a _nap_?” McCree teased.

She giggled. “So you do know my name! I was starting to think you’d forgotten.”

McCree tried not to react to her jab, but his face must’ve fallen, because she quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean that, love,” she said. “Tracer is practically my name anyways.”

It was stupid, McCree thought, to feel vulnerable when someone pointed out his habits. He hadn’t exactly meant to always call everyone their call names. He had just gotten used to it, in the years of being a gun for hire. Never call anyone by their first name. It was dangerous, or too comfortable, or sometimes insulting. And everyone else from his Overwatch days had either disappeared, or only appeared on the news. The media always used their call names. More show-y and dramatic.

“Not a problem, sugar,” McCree said, flipping open his book to the first worn page. “S’just a habit from my mercenary days.”

Tracer finally noticed the book on his lap and realized he was here to read. Normally, McCree could talk just as much as the lil’ English gal, but he very much wanted to get on to reading _Lonesome Dove_. Sometimes a man just wants some time to relax and read an old classic. She gave him a smile and went back to her magazine.

The two had maybe passed half an hour in silence when someone else climbed up to the roof. There had been no footsteps, so when the shadow crossed McCree’s vision, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Only two people in Gibraltar could move with such silence,

“Afternoon, Hanzo,” McCree said. Hanzo gave him a curt nod but kept walking. The silence was expected, but the casual clothing threw McCree for a loop. For once, his left arm and its elaborate tattoo were covered, and his pants weren’t tucked into metal boots. He was still wearing those, however—they metal toes caught the glare of the sun. They shinned as McCree’s prosthetic arm had, once, when it was clean. It had been a long time since the metal of his left forearm had been completely clean of dirt or rust or grim.

He had considered that Hanzo’s legs were prosthetic—because otherwise, that meant the archer had absolutely godly calves, and that was a bit much for McCree to handle—but it wasn’t polite to assume someone had gone and lost their limbs. But wearing the same metal boots he wore on mission when the rest of his outfit was so relaxed did seem weird, even for Hanzo.

Tracer would laugh at him for that. She’d point out that he had no room to call other people weird, because not only was he an honest-to-god cowboy, but he worked for the biggest weirdo magnet of an organization ever seen in all the land.

Hanzo hadn’t gone to the funeral either, Tracer had said. Had he slept through it as well? Nah, the archer didn’t seem the type to ever sleep in. Or sleep at all. Perhaps he hadn’t felt comfortable going to the funeral. He was still new.

Perhaps it wasn’t any of McCree’s business. He could hear his ma chastising him for looking for mysteries where there weren’t none, and even if there were, it sure wasn’t any of his beeswax.

He sighed, taking off his hat to run a hand through his shaggy hair. A cloud had passed over the sun, suddenly leaving him cold without its heat. He repositioned his hat and went to turn a page, and nearly missed the look in Hanzo’s eyes. He was staring at McCree with confusion, hesitance, and curiosity. A mix of emotions McCree knew well. It was the look of someone trying to solve a mystery.

Which mystery, though, was what McCree didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's... definitely gonna be Pharmercy in the background. I don't know how much it'll actually show up but just... know... it's happening. It's there.
> 
> Sorry nothing much happens :( It was already getting kinda long. For me, at least.


	7. Still The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mei arrives at Gibraltar with some less-than-great news. Also, Numbani!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took a while to write. In part because I just... lost motivation, but also because winter term started. I went back Jan. 2, because trimester system :P But here we are!!!! 
> 
> I don't know how much I'll be able to update for a little bit, because school and formal rush, but I love writing this, so hopefully it'll be soon!!!

A bullet whizzes past his ear and hits the training dummy right in between where its eyes would’ve been. Jesse whips around, following the ghostly trail of the bullet to a crouched figure on the upper training level. The figure stands up, and despite the heavy, armored clothing, Jesse can make out a small but imposing lady.

“You are blinder than a mole,” she says in an accent he doesn’t recognize. “On the field, you would be dead.” She vaults over the railing and lands light as a feather. Her long black hair is kept flat underneath a blue military cap, and under one of her eyes is a strange tattoo.

Ana Amari. The legendary sniper of Overwatch. What is she doing at Blackwatch?

“Hey now, I’ve made it this far alright,” Jesse replies.

She scoffs. “Hardly. I’m surprised Gabe would let such a child join his little posse.”

“I ain’t a _child,_ ” Jesse hisses. His fist clenches around Peacekeeper. He hasn’t been a child in a long time. That was taken from him when his ma died.

Ana Amari smirks at him. “Prove it.”

He huffs and turns to the dummies again. But there’s a hand on his shoulder, turning him back around _violently, harshly. The sniper rifle is gone, the blue hat is gone, the challenging smile is gone._ _Ana stares at him with hollow eye sockets, blood streaking down her face and greying hair. She opens her mouth and_

McCree jolted awake. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his hand had instinctively reached for Peacekeeper. He pulled the hand back to his chest, pressing the cool metal to his heart.

A dream. Nothin’ but a twisted up memory.

It was still dark outside. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. There was no chance in hell he’d be going back to sleep now, but he still rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. Being up before the sun was not his disposition, even after so many years on the run.

He must’ve drifted off slightly, because he opened his eyes and it was bright again and someone was knocking on his door. With a groan, he pushed himself out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold metal floor. He pressed the door panel, and it slid open.

“Oh. Fareeha,” he said through a yawn.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said. “Nice shirt.”

McCree rubbed his eyes and glanced down at his pajama shirt. It said, in bold black letters, _save a horse, ride a cowboy_. He gave Fareeha a roguish grin. “That wouldn’t happen to be sarcasm now, would it?” She rolled her eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sugar?” he said, leaning against the door frame.

“I figured you could do with being up before noon,” she said. “Also, do you remember Mei-Ling Zhou?”

The name didn’t ring any bells. “Can’t say I do,” McCree said.

“She was a climatologist at the Antarctica Eco-point. She’s just arrived, and apparently with some bad news, so Winston wants everyone to gather up as soon as possible to hear what happened.”

McCree had all but forgotten about the Eco-points. Hadn’t exactly been in his area of expertise, nor had his travels brought him close to any of them. And if they had, he probably wouldn’t have known, because they’d be shut down with the rest of Overwatch. “Alright, I’ll be there in a few. Doubt the big guy would like me showing up in this shirt, as much as I know you love it,” he said.

“I think the lack of pants would be a more of an issue,” Fareeha replied. “Get dressed.” With that, she strolled away. As she passed Hanzo’s door, it slid open, and the archer himself stepped out. He was pristine and immaculately put together. It was, frankly, rude for someone to look that put together at this ungodly hour.

“Let me guess,” McCree drawled. “You woke up like that?”

Hanzo gave him a cold, withering glare and said nothing. He followed Fareeha down the hall and to the left. Another song reference wasted.

Ten minutes later, McCree walked into the main meeting room, properly dressed in his usual button up shirt and jeans. His hat was tilted back, and his gun was, as always, at his hip. Everyone else was already there, lounging about in one manner or another. Except Tracer, who was probably back in Britain visiting Emily. Since the recall, Tracer probably hadn’t had much time with her _bird_. McCree had met Emily once—she had complimented his hat with words as sweet as honey, and he had darn near blushed.

In place of little Lena was a face McCree didn’t know, standing at the front of the room next to Winston. A small Asian woman with a round face and sweet eyes. That had to be Mei-Ling Zhou.

“Howdy,” McCree said with a tip of his hat.

“Nice of you to finally join us, McCree,” Winston said with a twinge of annoyance. “This is one of Overwatch’s old climatologists, Mei-Ling Zhou.” He gestured to the round-faced woman, who smiled at McCree cheerily.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jesse McCree,” she said.

“The pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. Sorry to keep y’all waiting,” he replied, pulling out the only empty chair. He sat down next to Fareeha, who had Mercy on her other side. Zenyatta was floating to his left, at the head of the table but against the wall. Genji stood next to Zenyatta, most of his visor on, only leaving his eyes visible. Across from McCree was Torbjörn, then Reinhardt, and then Hanzo. McCree caught the archer’s eye briefly, and then Hanzo stiffly turned away.

Maybe he had caught the reference, and had a severe dislike for Beyoncé. That would be, honestly, unforgivable. McCree wouldn’t be able to work with such a man.

Or it was just him being cold-shouldered as usual. He was certainly the dark and brooding type. Like that old comic book character, Batman. McCree smiled at the thought of Hanzo leaping around in a bat costume.

“I know you’re all probably wondering what Mei’s news is,” Winston said. “So, Mei, if you would?”

“Yes!” Mei said. She wrung her hands nervously before decisively crossing her arms. “Most of you probably didn’t know me or my colleagues, since us climatologists mostly stayed at our eco-points. But, er…” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself against what she was about to say. “Ten years ago, the Antarctica Eco-point was severely damaged in a blizzard. We were cut off from the outside world. When our supplies began to dwindle, we became desperate. So we went into cryostasis. But I’m… I’m the only one who survived.”

“Oh, Mei,” Mercy said, reaching out a comforting hand. Mei held her hand for a moment before letting go with a soft smile.

“The other news isn’t more pleasant, I’m afraid,” Mei continued. “I would’ve stayed in cryostasis for… for much longer, except I was woken up. Accidentally. By Talon agents.”

“Talon? Why would they be in Antarctica?” Torbjörn asked.

Mei shook her head. “I don’t know. All the Ecopoints have is data on the climate patterns… nothing useful to them. I only saw them as they were leaving, they didn’t come anywhere near the cryopods. They opened them from the main control panel. By the time I could walk around and had noticed everyone else was… not going to wake up, they were getting on a ship.”

“Tell them what you told me,” Winston prompted.

“Right,” Mei said. “I saw… it’s hard to explain, but one of the agents—dressed in all black with this horrifying white mask on—he turned into _smoke_.”

“What?” Fareeha said.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I know what I saw. Cryostasis has side effects, but hallucinations are not one of them,” Mei said with absolute assurance.

She definitely believed what she saw. But McCree didn’t know if that was enough to believe there was a man who could turn into smoke. That wasn’t possible. Cryostasis wasn’t supposed to kill people, either, so maybe it had been a hallucination.

Winston stepped forward. “Lena and I have also encountered this Talon agent. He came here before and tried to hack Athena, and later he and another agents, a sniper, tried to steal Doomfist’s gauntlet.” He pushed his glasses up and looked around the room with grave eyes. “I can’t explain it, but he can turn his whole body and anything on his person into black smoke.”

Three encounters with smoke man. That was much more reputable than Mei’s single long-distance spotting. McCree didn’t know what to make of that. No one else seemed to either, except for the two Shimadas. Hanzo’s face was tight with concern, and he kept looking back to Genji, who’s barely visible eyes were wide with shock. Had they, too, seen this smoke guy before?

“So, are ya sendin’ us to Antarctica?” McCree said. “Are we gonna chase down this smokey fella?”

“No, we aren’t sending anyone to Antarctica,” Winston said. “Mei and I both agree that wouldn’t be wise right now, both because Talon was recently there and because it’s blizzard season.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out what they wanted there?” Fareeha asked. “I doubt they went all the want to Antarctica for the hell of it.”

“We will,” Winston said. “Mei?”

He stepped back, leaving Mei in the center front. “I already have a plan for that,” she said. “I’m leaving in a week to visit the nearest Eco-point. All the Eco-points have a shared database, so hopefully from one I can find out what was taken from Antarctica. I wouldn’t be of much use here, anyways.”

“As for the… strange Talon agent, I imagine we’ll cross paths with him again in due time,” Winston said. “Speaking of which, we have a mission that needs to be done as soon as possible. Before Talon can make a move again. Fareeha, Hanzo, and McCree, you five need to stay for…” Winston paused, perhaps because McCree had let out a groan of exhaustion, and sighed. “That can wait for a little bit, I suppose. Be back here in half an hour.”

McCree was up and out of the room in an instant. His stomach was growlin’ up a storm, and he was in the mood for the sugariest cereal he could get his hands on. Fareeha caught up to him easily with her mile-long legs. She snatched his hat, just like she had done when she was little, except now she could reach it without having to climb over him. “Where’s the fire, cowboy?” she said with a laugh, putting his hat on with a smooth spin.

“It’s the fire of hunger in my stomach,” McCree said. “You think we have Lucky Charms?”

“I doubt Angela would let anything more sugary than Cheerios in the base.”

McCree grumbled. “I’ll have to go out and get my own, then. Hide them away from the good doctor.”

“You’re that desperate for kids’ cereal?”

“Fareeha,” McCree said as they finally got to the kitchen. “Don’t sass me. I remember you digging out all the marshmallows from my Lucky Charms when you were seven.”

“Yes, because I was _seven_ ,” Fareeha said. She pulled a pre-made salad out of the fridge and then handed McCree the milk.

A small _clink_ of metal against the tiled floor came from the entrance, followed by softer, heavier steps of snow boots. McCree looked over his shoulder and saw Hanzo and Mei walking in. She was looking around with big eyes, as if trying to memorize the whole kitchen. Hanzo made a beeline for the bowl of fruit.

“Cereal?” McCree offered, holding out the box of Frosted Flakes to Mei.

“Oh, no, thank you,” Mei said. “I don’t really like cereal.”

McCree shook his head. “Damn shame. You’re missing out.”

She giggled nervously, like she didn’t know how to respond.

“Missing out on what? Rotting teeth?” Fareeha said.

“Alright, you sass me this much, you don’t get to wear my hat,” McCree threatened, making a lunge for his hat. Fareeha side-stepped out of the way, laughing as his momentum made him stumble. “Oh, you’re askin’ for it now,” he growled playfully. Even after all the years, it still felt the same with her.

She danced out of his reach, holding the hat to her head with one hand and holding a fork with another. Mei was laughing now, too. “You still can’t catch me, huh?” Fareeha teased.

“Excuse you, I _let_ you escape back then,” McCree said. He nearly had her when she leaped behind Mei. Fareeha was a good foot taller than the little climatologist, and she stooped to hide behind her. McCree tried to step around, but froze.

Hanzo was staring at him, with that same expression of confusion and hesitation, and something new that McCree couldn’t place. For a moment McCree was frozen to the spot under those dark eyes.

“Admiring the view, sugar?” he finally said.

Hanzo looked surprised to be spoken to, but he quickly shook it off. “The view of you being outsmarted so easily _is_ something to be admired,” he said.

McCree gasped in mock offense, and Fareeha burst into full body laughter. A small smile graced Hanzo’s face, and McCree couldn’t help but smile back. Then—because he was a man on a mission for his hat—he reached over Mei and yanked his hat off of Fareeha.

“Sorry ‘bout that, darlin’,” he said to Mei. She had ducked instinctively, even though he easily reached over her. She nodded wordlessly. He wanted to say something else, maybe a condolence about what had happened to everyone at the Eco-point, but he’d never been good with sentimental stuff. So instead he stepped back to his hastily abandoned cereal. It had gone soggy.

“Could you point me to the barracks?” Mei asked Hanzo. “Winston said I could take any free room, but I don’t know where anything is.”

“Of course,” Hanzo replied. He left the kitchen, Mei following closely behind.

Fareeha elbowed McCree. “Admiring the view? Really?”

* * *

A gust of hot, dry air hit McCree in the face. The city of Numbani sparkled under the bright early morning sun. The desert climate McCree could deal with; the blinding buildings, not so much. He tilted his hat as far down as he could and stepped off the ship with the rest of the team. The smoke of his cigar covered his face and he closed his eyes against it.

Fareeha—or Pharah, as she was to be called on the field—was in a brand spankin’ new Raptora Flight Suit that sparkled as much as the city. In a way, it matched Mercy’s Valkyrie suit. But unlike Mercy, who looked serene and, well, merciful, Fareeha looked powerful, self-assured. McCree couldn’t help but remember how much her mother had wanted Fareeha to stay away from this line of work.

As if there were any chance in hell that would happen.

“Everyone remembers the plan?” Winston said from the ship.

“Yes, yes,” Pharah said impatiently.

Hanzo nodded curtly. Just as McCree had seen Hanzo dressed in Japan, his left sleeve was off, tucked into his belt. The dragon tattoo looked extra blue against the dry landscape.

“Alright, we’ll be at the pick up location in 2 hours. Good luck,” Winston said. He and Mercy gave them a wave as the hanger door closed, and the ship rose into the air with a puff of dust.

“You still smoke that stuff?” Pharah said.

“Oh, don’t go Mercy on me,” he said. “Let me have this until we reach the city, alright?”

She sighed.

They were on the edge of the city, just far enough away that their arrival wouldn’t be noticed. It would be at least a mile walk into the city proper, and than they had to get to the museum where the Doomfist gauntlet was being held. That was where Pharah came in—she still had connections from her Security Guard days, and she knew some of the guards at the Numbani Overwatch Museum. They knew the newly reformed Overwatch was coming to collect the gauntlet, and had given their word to not let it slip that Overwatch was back. McCree found it a little hard to believe that they would keep such a secret, when the museum was funded by the U.N., but Pharah swore these people were trustworthy.

They walked along the beaten trail next to the highway. It was nearly deserted, only the occasional truck driving by. Unlike New York, this city apparently _did_ sleep, and like anyone sensible, they were asleep at 6 AM.

By the time they got into Numbani, McCree’s cigar was spent andthe sun had fully risen above the horizon stirring the city into the morning rush. McCree, Hanzo, and Pharah would’ve made an odd sight most places, but in a city where omnics were as common as the humans, no one looked twice. Still, they kept to the alleys and the shadows.

The museum had giant banners hanging from its awning, advertising an upcoming exhibit on the affect of the Omnic War in Australia. McCree grimaced internally; Blackwatch had been deployed there once, and McCree still starkly remembered the barren, radiation-bathed outback. He’d only seen it from the air, but the feeling of death had still reached him.

“There’s Gray,” Pharah said, nodding towards a security guard. At the same time, he noticed her and raised a hand in subtle greeting. She smiled and sped up her pace.

“Amari!” the guard said. “Nice new suit. Right on time, as always.”

“Of course,” Pharah replied. “Thank you for keeping this under wraps.”

He nodded. “If what you told us about Talon is true, than the gauntlet is safer with Overwatch than us, however small you might be. Follow me.”

Gray lead them down the alleyway next to the museum and through a triple-locked door. Pharah walked side by side with him, McCree only a step behind. They were in the back rooms of the museum, and their footsteps were the only noise.There was no need to be quiet, but McCree felt like an elephant in a room of glass. He put all his focus into stepping in just the right way so his spurs wouldn’t clink. Hanzo moved like a ghost—silent, weightless, and smooth.

“We pulled it off display a few days ago under the guise of annual repairs,” Gray explained. “We already boxed it up in a locked lead case. Nothing will be able to detect it.”

He pressed his hand against a softly glowing panel, and a door McCree hadn’t noticed slid open. Gray slipped in, and came back out carrying a large metal box that was remarkably _not_ inconspicuous. He handed it to Pharah, who took it like it weighed no more than a feather.

“That ain’t exactly the most normal looking thing to carry around,” McCree pointed out.

“I’ll be taking a car with Gray,” Pharah said. “McCree, did you not listen to Winston? Really? He said this a dozen times.”

She gave him a look that made her look the spitting image of her mother. That same expression had often been turned on McCree when he’d done something particularly stupid, and seeing it on little Fareeha’s face was bizarre.

He shrugged. “Was just pointing it out, darlin’. Besides, ya still gotta walk to the car.”

He really had listened to Winston—as much as he sometimes came off as overly laissez-faire, he _did_ take their operations seriously. But his scattered thoughts he couldn’t help so much, and details always managed to escape him until they were brought back up. Memory works in strange, and inconvenient, ways, McCree found.

They left the museum the same way they came in, Gray in the lead and immediately climbing into a discreet, black vehicle. Pharah opened the door and

“Gotchya.”

Out of thin air, a girl in all purple appeared. She pointed a gun straight at Pharah’s head, and Pharah barely had time to duck out of the way before she fired. She squatted and then blasted into the sky like a rocket, bright flames expelling from the wing-like protrusions of her suit.

“Gray! GO!” she shouted. Gray slammed the gas pedal, door still open, and sped away. Hopefully to get Winston.

The girl in purple smirked. “Don’t think so, amiga,” she said, and tossed what looked like one of Tracer’s bombs up at Pharah.

“No!” McCree yelled. He aimed to shoot it, to blow it up before it reached Fareeha, but an arrow hit it and sent it sideways. _Hanzo_.

The purple girl growled in frustration and leaped at Hanzo, gun blazing. The arrow and the strange bomb-like thing clattered to the ground, nothing blowing up. Surprised, McCree’s grip on Peacekeeper loosened a fraction.

The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against his head. “You always were easily distracted.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... Mei's scene at Antartica originally went WAY differently and I had to totally rework it. Still not totally happy with it. Tell me what you think???
> 
> I also hope it's clear that that first bit was a dream. I try not to make it totally clear right from the start, because in dreams you usually don't notice. But I changed the tense and ended with the italics, so hopefully it's clear-ish??
> 
> I have no idea how to write Hanzo, but I figure he would be pretty quiet on missions. He's quite the serious boy. Also, he's 100% low key avoiding McCree. Hmmmmm,,,,,, why could that be.......


	8. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission does not end well. McCree sees someone impossible. Hanzo lets his hair loose (though not by choice).

“ _You always were easily distracted._ ”

A bone-white mask stared at McCree, inhuman and soul sucking. Smoke poured from the eyes and edges, and the voice was rough and gravely.

The smoke man.

“Get BACK!” Pharah yelled. A concussive blast went off at McCree’s feet, knocking the breath out of him and sending him across the pavement. The smoke man got flung in the opposite direction with a grunt.

So. Not _completely_ smoke, then.

_You always were_ ….

Why did it sound like the smoke man knew McCree?

An arrow flew at the white mask but it was gone in a puff of smoke. Like a ghost, the misty figure of the man swooped towards Hanzo, who had already notched another arrow and was waiting for him to turn solid. McCree vaguely noticed Pharah using the light pistol against the purple girl, who somehow kept flinging herself into the air with the bomb-like things.

The smoke turned solid and two gun barrels were pointed at Hanzo. He fired an arrow, but it past straight through. Hanzo’s eyes widened and he turned around to run and the man laughed—a deep, disconcerting sound that sounded like an earthquake—and his trigger finger pulled and McCree pulled on Ana’s old lessons, every single one, and he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

“ _Draw_.”

The white mask cracked and flew off at the force of the bullet. The smoke man screamed and bent over and his gun barrels flicked up just as they fired. Hanzo cried out in pain and dropped his bow to clutch his shoulder. The smoke man covered his face with his hands, growling in an animal sort of way. Then his head whipped up, hands reaching into his cloak, red eyes meeting McCree’s.

There were cracks in his face, spilling smoke that fell to the ground and dispersed around his feet. There was unfathomable anger, rage, desperation, all twisted in his expressions. But still, McCree knew him.

“Reyes,” he whispered.

“You still remember what that old woman taught you, I see,” he replied. Smoke poured out of his mouth with the words.

“You… you _died_ ,” Jesse said. He could feel his hands twitching, Peacekeeper falling to the earth, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t, because this had to be a dream, or a nightmare, or some horrible mix of the two.

Reyes chuckled, a sound that had once made Jesse want to laugh as well, but now made him want to run. “Didn’t take to it,” he said with smokey teeth. He had risen back to his feet—when had he stood up?— and he leveled his shotguns with Jesse’s head. “But I didn’t teach you that trick.”

Then the shotguns went flying and clattered to the ground. Reyes yelled in pain, clutching the arrow lodged in his wrist.

Jesse’s eyes flew to Hanzo, who was bleeding heavily from the shoulder and holding his bow with white knuckles. There was cold fire in his dark eyes. “It seems,” Hanzo said in a deadly voice, “that he got his distracted tendencies from you.”

Hanzo’s voice snapped McCree back to his body. His hand tightened around Peacekeeper. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t the Gabriel Reyes that McCree had known before. He wasn’t _human_. McCree raised his gun, five bullets itching to be fired, and told the smoke man: “You best be leaving, partner.”

He looked nowhere near ready to give up the fight—that was just like the old Reyes. Then something crackled, the sound of a com coming in, and suddenly Reyes had dropped into heavy smoke and scurried away.

Adrenaline still coursed through McCree’s body and he couldn’t get himself to relax. He knew he’d be sore tomorrow, because that was always the repercussion of using Deadeye. For now though, Hanzo was the one in pain.

The archer did not lower his bow, even as McCree jogged the short distance to him. “Come on now, Hanzo,” McCree said, “let’s get you to the doc.”

He put his gloved hand gently on Hanzo’s uninjured right shoulder, half expecting to be shrugged off. Instead, he lowered his bow. “That… is a good idea,” he murmured.

That was a lot of blood, McCree thought. Rivers of blood were still trickling down the blue dragon tattoo, and he could make out several entry wounds. Those shotguns were loaded with something vicious. McCree wanted to joke about how _of course_ Hanzo got shot in his uncovered shoulder—really, he’d just been tempting the fates with so much exposed skin—but he figured now wasn’t the time. Not when they were leaving a trail of blood behind them, and Pharah was still unaccounted for.

“Pharah, Pharah come in. This is McCree. Over,” McCree said into the com.

A telltale crackle. “Target escaped with the gauntlet, but I’m fine,” came Pharah’s voice. “What about you? Over.”

Well shit, all that trouble and the gauntlet had been taken right from their hands. Not that any of them even knew what Talon wanted with the gauntlet in the first place. “I’m fine, but Hanzo got shot,” McCree reported. “We need Mercy. And…” he trailed off, not sure if he could bring himself to say Reyes’ name. Especially to Fareeha, who had loved the man when she was little.

“And I got some bad news that can wait ’til later,” McCree finally said. “Fly ahead to the ship and give Mercy a heads-up. Over.”

“Roger. Over and out.”

* * *

The walk back to the ship hadn’t been easy. A bleeding man drew quite the commotion, especially when there’d been gunfire heard across the city minutes earlier. Policy sirens had eventually showed up, and in fear of blame being passed to him (being an outlaw and all), McCree had detoured through shadowy alleys. For  such a bright, glistening city, there sure were a lot of those.

Hanzo hadn’t seemed anymore pleased by their situation, both because of the pain and because of the attention. McCree knew that he would’ve preferred being on the roofs and balconies of the city, where no one could be above him, and everyone was far away. It was the thinking of a sniper, and the thinking of someone who had been on the run for too many years. Both lines of thought were well-worn paths in McCree’s mind.

Mercy had patched Hanzo up on the ship with the supplies she had and her Caduceus Staff—a device that seemed near magical in its ability to repair damage at 10 times the rate of natural healing. The archer’s exposed arm had been wrapped in bandages and then he’d slowly pulled the sleeve on. The ride back to the base was silent, only filled with Mercy’s dithering at the beginning and a subdued comment from McCree that he needed a moment.

No one else knew that it had been Reyes. Pharah hadn’t seen him. Hanzo wouldn’t have recognized him. The horrible truth weighed solely on McCree’s shoulders. It was so devastating that he didn’t even know if he could tell anyone. It would hurt too much to say.

To say that Gabriel had been alive this whole time. Maybe not alive and well, but alive. And now he was working against them.

Reyes had threatened McCree. His mentor, the man who gave him a (however forced) second chance after Deadlock… he’d aimed to kill McCree like it was nothing. McCree knew the look of regret, or of manipulation, and Reyes had neither. It had been all him.

McCree held his hat in his lap outside of the infirmary. They’d gotten back half an hour ago, and Mercy had taken Hanzo directly to her ward. Of course, Hanzo still had to attend the debriefing, so everyone had to wait for Mercy to discharge him. McCree had followed them to the infirmary, and had sat down outside it when Mercy shut him out. Why was he still here, and not getting a snack or some sleep?

His grip tightened on the rim of his hat. He felt _responsible_ for Hanzo’s injury. He shouldn’t have frozen to the spot. He was _better_ than that. He’d faced betrayal before, had knowingly and unknowingly befriended traitors. But this hurt a thousand times more. Part of it was because it had been Gabriel. But part of it… McCree couldn’t identify.

That was equally as terrifying.

The door slid open and Mercy stepped out. “Oh, McCree,” she said. McCree jumped to his feet, still holding his hat. “Good, you’re still here. I got all the shrapnel out and sewed up some of the larger wounds. He’ll be fine to move around, except for his arm. I told him he isn’t to move it, but I want you to make sure he doesn’t, since you’re neighbors. Okay?”

“I got you, doc,” McCree assured.

She gave him her usual, soft smile. “Thank you. Now, I believe we’ve made everyone wait long enough for the debriefing. Shall we go?” She looked back into the infirmary, and side-stepped to let Hanzo out.

His ponytail was starting to come undone, and he did not look pleased. No one had ever seen him with his hair down, but of course now he couldn’t very well fix it. He was wearing the same clothes as on the mission, with the maybe-boots, maybe-prosthetics. Bandages peaked out from the loose neckline of his odd, Japanese shirt.

Hanzo nodded stiffly, and McCree had to take a moment to process that Mercy had spoken. “McCree? Did you hit your head on the mission?” she asked.

He blinked at her. “Ah, naw, just tired ’s’all.”

It was the truth—Deadeye drained him like nothing else, and already he could feel the pulsing headache radiating from his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to lie in his room, in the dark, in total silence. Listening to nothing but the breeze and his breath. Instead, he had to somehow explain to everyone that the old commander of Blackwatch had, somehow, impossibly, survived.

And now he was working for Talon.

McCree put his hat back on, barely registering the lingering look of concern on Hanzo’s face. The three of them headed for the main meeting room, McCree slightly leading the way.

Everyone else was already there. Fareeha was rubbing her temples and Genji was talking with Winston in hushed tones. Torbjörn and Reinhardt were idly talking, Mei had her head on the table, and Zenyatta was meditating in the corner, orbs bobbing around his head. Had they waited the whole time? McCree had lost any sense of time, but it had felt like an hour.

“Brother,” Genji said with a smile of relief. “How is your shoulder?”

“It is fine,” Hanzo replied stiffly.

Genji looked to Mercy. She nodded. “He’s fine, Genji, really,” she said. “Or, he will be, if he stays off the practice range and actually gets some rest. I’ve seen you going off with your bow and arrow at all sorts of hours. Such an erratic sleep schedule is not good for your health.” Hanzo grumbled something in Japanese. Genji laughed, though it mostly came out as a snort.

“Mister Shimada,” Zenyatta said, floating up behind Genji. “I’m glad to see you weren’t hurt too badly.”

“Alright, everyone,” Winston said. “Let’s get this over with so we can all get some sleep. Please, sit down.”

Everyone who wasn’t already sitting grabbed a chair. Mercy sat next to Fareeha, Torbjörn and Reinhardt and Mei were all in a row, and Genji and Zenyatta took their usual chair-less position at the other head of the table. McCree grabbed the chair next to Mercy, and then—in undeniable proof that the universe still had surprises left—Hanzo sat next to him.

He was exhausted, McCree could see that now that he was closer. The slowly crumbling ponytail didn’t help the bags under his eyes or the weary look in them. He folded his arms slowly on the table, shoulders tense with pain.

“Uh, Miss Zhou?” Winston said.

The poor gal was ahead of the schedule—fast asleep. Reinhardt, sitting next to her, put his hand on his shoulder. At the touch, she jerked awake, wide-eyed and with a line of drool across her cheek. “What? What is—“ she cut off, looking around the room and seeing everyone’s eyes on her. “Oh, sorry, sorry, did I fall asleep?” She turned red as a tomato and wiped her mouth and the back of her parka sleeve.

Winston cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. Well, let’s start off with the obvious. We failed to secure the gauntlet.”

Fareeha’s face tightened. Mercy’s hand ghosted over her arm, though it did nothing to sooth her.

“It was Talon,” Fareeha said bitterly. “That man of smoke was there, along with a girl who could turn invisible. I heard her call the man of smoke ‘Reaper’.”

“Talon? Are you sure?” Torbjörn said.

“We know the smoke man works for Talon. Winston has encountered him twice, both times with well-known Talon members, correct?” Fareeha said, glancing at the gorilla in question.

Winston nodded. “And he used Talon technology to try and hack Athena.”

_Reaper_. That was so melodramatic, overly dark… the exact kind of thing McCree had once made fun of Reyes for genuinely liking. Of course he would go by something like that. McCree almost wanted to laugh.

“McCree,” said Hanzo, barely a whisper. “Have the armrests offended you in some way?”

What? McCree looked down to his hands. They were gripping his armrests so tightly his knuckles had turned white and purple. He uncurled his fingers and felt the blood rush back to them. The armrests creaked back into place.

“You recognized the man of smoke,” Hanzo said in the same soft and quiet voice. Not a question; a statement. He could read people as well as McCree. No, probably better.

He had to tell them. McCree knew he had to. If they knew it was Gabriel, they would have a better idea of what they were dealing with. He cleared his throat, and Mercy looked towards him.

“Pardon me,” he said finally, voice rough. Everyone turned to him, and he wished they would turn away. “I, uh…”

“We saw the man’s face,” Hanzo said.

“Did you recognize him?” Winston asked.

McCree nodded. He pulled his hat off and held it in his lap again, thumbing the worn-out leather. “I didn’t want to believe it, but there weren’t no mistaking him. It was… Reyes. Gabriel.”

Noise exploded at the name. Questions, demands, exclamations. Too much noise to be coming from such a small group. The headache behind McCree’s eyes burst into a migraine, and the noise was pushing him out of his chair and out of the room and all the way to his door.

He leaned his head against the cool metal, for some reason not opening the door. His limbs felt so heavy, and the cold prosthetic arm especially so. He remembered the fight he lost it, all the blood and the pain so great it swallowed his mind. Reyes, his commander, always too emotional when it came to his agents… Reyes had carried McCree back to the ship, abandoning the mission right in the thick of it all. He talked to McCree the whole ride back to base, keeping him awake, getting him water, distracting him as much as anyone could.

The prosthetic, Reyes had gotten. The skull was his personal addition, perhaps in bad taste, but it had made McCree smile despite his exhaustion from surgery.

How was that the same man as Reaper?

McCree punched the door panel, and it slammed open. His hands were trembling, one of them not even _his_. A present from the man who had given McCree a second chance when no one else would. The man who just tried to _kill him_. Suddenly, the metal felt too heavy, weighed with memories and change, and he wanted it gone. He hardly ever took it off, so his fingers stumbled over the latches and switches, but eventually it clicked off the port.

He held the arm in his hand. It was so old and rusty, but the skull was still visible. His vision blurred, and before he could think it, he threw the arm clear across the room. It smacked the wall and fell in a clattering lump to the ground. It didn’t break, which was both relieving and despicable. McCree sunk to his bed, his shoulders curling in, his arms—one now painfully light—folding over his knees, and his head sinking down to rest on them.

Why was he such a mess?

He’d been betrayed before. By people just as close to him, if not closer. His own family…

The door slid open.

McCree didn’t look up. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had tears in his eyes, and he’d rather no one saw that.

“I apologize, I meant to knock, but it appears your door is broken.”

Hanzo. His neighbor.  Shit, he probably heard McCree’s lil episode

“S’alright,” McCree muttered.

“I came to return your hat,” Hanzo said. “You left it in the meeting room.”

Oh. So maybe he hadn’t heard the arm against the wall. Wouldn’t that be a blessing?

“Thank you,” McCree said.

Silence. Hanzo didn’t move, and McCree looked up. The archer stood in the door, silhouetted by the hallway light, cowboy hat in his hands sticking out against the traditional Eastern clothing. His hair was steadily falling out of the ponytail, and the light shinning through it made it nearly blue.

“McCree,” Hanzo said, “I do not wish to overstep boundaries, but if I may ask, are you alright?”

That brought a small smile to McCree’s face. “If I’m bein’ honest with ya, frankly, I’m pretty damn far from alright,” he said. His hand cupped the stump of his arm, covered in the cold metal of the prosthetic port. The scar tissue was barely visible.

“May I ask, then, what is wrong?” Hanzo asked, in that same soft and quiet voice. How did he do that?

“That’s a mighty long story, I’m afraid,” McCree replied.

Hanzo stepped forward, metal feet still ghostly silent. McCree was starting to wonder if the man had any weight at all, or if he just floated and merely pretended to walk. “I am here to listen, if you wish,” Hanzo said.

He extended the hat to McCree, and McCree took it. He put it gently on his cluttered night stand, over his breaking copy of _Lonesome Dove_ , and stared at the rusty ol’ arm on the ground.

* * *

My family wasn’t rich by no means. My pa had a blue collar job, never knew what exactly. Ma ran a repair shop out of the garage—she could fix anythin’ ya put in her hands. My older sister, Will, she inherited that gift. Ain’t never be seen without grease in her hair or dirt under her nails. Then there were the twins, younger than me by four years. Emma and Morgan. They were only kids when I… when I last saw ‘em.

I was born in Texas, but we moved to New Mexico when I was 13. I was a shit lil brat, and the move didn’t help none. Pa’s job stayed the same, but we lost all ma’s business. We started strugglin’, tryin’ to build up a costumer base while us kids suddenly had a lot more schoolin’. Then ma got sick, real sick, and Will had to pick up the slack. She dropped out of high school, and I just stopped going to school. I didn’t have many friends, just some old childhood imaginings, so there was nothing for me to miss. That’s when Deadlock picked me up.

They saw a kid out of place, in need of cash, and that’s all the reasoning they needed. I was 15. I didn’t know what I was getting into. The Deadlock Gang carted illegal weapons, but they just told me they worked with speciality mechanics. Lord almighty, I was an idiot.

By the time I realized what we were really doin’, I was in too deep and didn’t care one smidgen. My pa, on the other hand, he found it downright unacceptable. My ma was on death’s door when he kicked me out. I ran with Deadlock without a second thought. All I had with me was my second-hand gun from the stock and my old hat.

I should’ve… I should’ve stayed around. Even if pa would’ve lashed me on sight. That’s hardly nothin’ compared to never…

Overwatch busted Deadlock. We got loose, sloppy, too confident in our piles of cash and cushy rides. Some of us died in the gunfire. I hated those damn fancy Overwatch bastards. Their fancy guns and uniforms, their coordinated movements, their faces on every holoscreen… All I saw in them was everyone who’d looked down on me. To be fair, they had all reason to look down on me. God, I wasn’t worth _shit._

But… Gabriel Reyes must’ve seen somethin’ in me, because he offered me a place in Blackwatch. I hated Overwatch to the ends of the Earth, but Reyes…

He told me who had died. Five from Deadlock. One from Overwatch. Most of Deadlock would be going to prison, except the few who had escaped. Then he looked me in the eye and told me I was just a kid. He said I still had a chance.

I spat in his face.

He laughed. He fuckin’ _laughed_ and he looked at me with the most terrifyin’ eyes I ever saw, and he told me I could shape my life to be somethin’ worthwhile. He said it was never too late for a second chance, especially when you’re just a kid in a cowboy hat.

I accepted, o’ course. And he trained me. He got me a new gun, one that wasn’t illegal acquired and fired steadily. Good ol’ Peacekeeper. He wasn’t one for sharpshootin’, but he spared no effort in kickin’ my butt intta shape in everythin’ else.

Reyes was not kind. He was rude, he held impossible standards, and the man had more rage than a bull in a ring. But he was the only one who had ever given me a second chance, and the first to be straight with me in god-knows how long. He got Ana Amari, the best sniper to ever walk this Earth, to train me. He fixed my hat when it got ripped to near shreds. I can’t explain it right, but Reyes made me feel like I was worth more than my gunslingin’.

But, as anyone knows, Overwatch didn’t last. I bailed at the first sign of trouble. I thought I had found my place, I thought I was a better person, that I was actually doin’ something _good_ for once in my God-forsaken life. Then the rifts started, and I got scared, and I fucking ran. I didn’t tell nobody, not even Reyes. I disappeared.

I went back to America. I knew it was a long shot, but I figured at least Will would stick around Santa Fe. Girl never liked change. And she was there, in her own little shop, makin’ a good livin’. She hardly recognized me, and when she did, I was afraid she’d call the cops. I had quite the bounty on my head.

She didn’t. Even though I deserved it.

She told me everythin’ that she knew. Pa had moved back to Texas, to our old house. Will said they hadn’t seen hide or tail of him since Will’s job went steady. The twins were off, Emma at college with a scholarship for biology—biology, can ya believe that?—and Morgan was in the military.

Ma, though… ma didn’t last very long after I left.

Shit, I should’ve _stayed_.

I was pissed. I was so angry at my pa for kickin’ me out, for never bein’ around back then, for not helpin’ my siblings one bit. For runnin’, just like me. So I went back to Texas, back to the dried out husk of a valley we used to call home.

It was all so the same. Nothing had changed, like West Texas had gone and frozen over once we left. The house still leaned, the steps still creaked, and the fort I built when I was 6 was still outside. The juniper trees had somehow survived the droughts, and… ha, my old box of toys was even still there. I’d half expected them to’ve been nicked at some point, but who’d want dusty old kid toys?

My pa hardly saw me. His mind was half gone. I reckon he’d forced himself to forget me. Didn’t recognize his own kid’s face. So I did what I always did: I ran from him, too.

The next time I heard of Reyes, it was the notice for his funeral. I’d cut off Overwatch completely from my life. I’d no idea what’d happen—the growin’ separation, the explosion, the Petras Act… and then suddenly it’s on the news everywhere: “Founders of Overwatch Reyes and Morrison Presumed Dead in Explosion.”

Soon after that, I found out Ana was dead, too. Out-sniped by some hogwash Talon agent.

I didn’t go to any of the funerals. I couldn’t. I was too much of a goddamn coward. The man who’d treated me like his own kid, who picked me off the street, was dead and I couldn’t even pay my last respects.

But I guess they wouldn’t have been the last. Because somehow, by some nightmare miracle of the Devil’s hand, he’s _alive_. I don’t… I don’t know how, or how much alive he even is. He’s hardly human, is he? Fuckin’ smoke monster or some other sci-fi bullshit. Something out of nightmares. And he… he fuckin’ tried to kill me.

He used to fight next to me, Hanzo, and now he’s tryin’ to kill me.

I ain’t a stranger to bein’ betrayed. Happens a lot when you work for a Gang like the Deadlock, and even more when you’re a gun for hire. There was one time, we were supposed to cart in a box of photon guns, but we’d been duped. The client was a rival gang on the other side of the highway, and they’d rigged up the stock with C4. They wanted us off the map, or at the very least, leave the map with only our blood stains.

Unfortunately for them, we kept all our cargo in these fancy boxes, lined with lead and other shit, so police scanners couldn’t pick up nothing. The explosion wrecked the box, but only two of us got injured. After that whole mess, we boosted our security checks—and by that I mean, we _started_ doin’ security checks. God, what a bunch of morons we were.

So yeah, no stranger to traitors. But this hurts. It shouldn’t hurt this much but it does. Ain’t no excuse for it. Just me being a soft-hearted fool, I suppose.

I can’t believe he would work for Talon. _Talon_. He hated those bastards. What could… how… I’m trying to piece this all together in my head, and I can’t. I can’t find any sense nor song innit. Maybe there ain’t any.

* * *

McCree stopped. His vision had been getting blurry, and despite his best attempts to blink it away, the tears fell. He’d only just managed to hesitantly meet Hanzo’s eyes, and now he dropped his head back down to his knees.

“Sorry, partner. Ramblin’, aren’t I?” he tried to say with a laugh. It fell terribly flat.

Hanzo’s hand brushed McCree’s shoulder, light as a feather. “It is fine,” he said. His eyes were filled with something hopeful, but also something empty. The ponytail had completely come undone, soft dark hair mingling with the growing grey. Despite said grey, having his hair down made him look younger.

“Hey now, I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you,” McCree said. “Doc’s orders.”

“I’d rather hear a ‘rambling’ story than arms being pitted against our shared wall,” Hanzo said, quirking an eyebrow.

So he had heard that. “Sorry about that, than, too,” McCree said.

Hanzo nodded, accepting the apology. “I believe both of us could do with an early retirement to bed. Good night, McCree.”

McCree smiled as the archer walked out. “Night, Hanzo.”

The broken door didn’t fully close behind him. McCree got up and pulled it shut. His room was dark, only the dim evening light shinning in through the window. The abused metal arm lay lifeless, and McCree suddenly felt bad for throwing it like a child in a temper tantrum.He picked it up, gingerly, as if trying to apologize to it by treating it with 10 times the gentleness it has ever received.

He put it next to his hat on the bedside table and leaned back against the wall. What had possessed Hanzo to sit through all his ramblin’? And, perhaps more baffling, what had possessed McCree to share all that? Not that he was the most closed-off person, but he sure as hell wasn’t an open book.

Maybe it was because he was just so damn tired. So tired and worn at the edges, after learning about… Reaper. Maybe it was because he’d need to share all that, and Hanzo had just been the one to ask. Maybe it was because he felt like he could trust Hanzo. Which was stupid to the nth degree, because he hardly knew Hanzo, and the man had attacked his own brother.

But Genji had forgiven him. And McCree didn’t know what they’re family had been like—how controlling they’d been, how powerful, how they treated their kids. Of course, he knew about the Shimada clan at large, since Overwatch had taken them down. But the details? McCree knew how hard it can be for a kid to escape their parents. Parents came in all kinds of colors, from peachy to downright wardens. And worse.

There had been remorse in Hanzo’s eyes when he’d met him in Japan. In every line of his face, lines that shouldn’t be on the face of someone under 50, there’d been pain.

And in that loose hair and dark eyes, there’d been something familiar, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao I'm... painfully busy right now with school. Chapter 9 probably won't be out for at least 2 weeks. AT LEAST.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. Asked for, even. Desired, possibly.


	9. Intermission: Geniuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small intermission focusing on Angela <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm super insanely busy. Like I'm two straws away from breaking the metaphorical camel's back (in this case, the camel's back is my emotional and mental stability). I don't know if I'll even want to write during spring break, so I'm giving you this little thing for now. Originally it was the start of chapter 9.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Angela didn’t remember when the Genius had come, but she knew it started with dreams. Dreams of a golden bird, with wings that glowed sapphire and sunset orange. It sang sweet songs that made every cell of her body hum, perfectly in sync with each other and her. Overtime she woke up from a dream with the golden bird, she felt better than ever before, like her body was healed of any slightest malady, like a veil had been lifted in her mind. When the bird started appearing during her conscious hours, flitting in and out of the corners of her vision, she didn’t question it, even though it had all the signs of being a hallucination.

But what the golden bird really was she didn’t know until she met Genji.

“Met” was probably not the right word. She was called in to the Pacific Isles base, where under Overwatch’s intensive cryostasis care, a boy barely into adulthood was barely clinging to life. His skin was shredded like ribbons, held together with pins and gauze and medical glue. Most of his organs and intestines are punctured and torn, hardly working if they functioned at all. Air was mechanically pumped through his lungs, his heart stimulated by electric pulses. Nerves were all but flayed, and his legs and arms would never work again. There was damage no one could explain, that couldn’t have happened even from the sharpest sword in the most skilled hands. Claw marks down his back, bleeding and burned stumps on his shoulder blades, as if something had once grown from them and had been gruesomely detached.

Angela was called in because she was the best, the brightest, his last hope.

She didn’t know what to do. She lost days upon days of sleep, each hour that passed was another hour lost that Genji could be kept alive.

When the bird appeared in front of her, she thought she’d finally passed out from exhaustion. It gently pecked her hand and then flew to the door. She got up, dizzy with exhaustion, and followed it. The golden bird led her down the halls and to the cryostasis wing. Angela’s feet automatically turned to Genji, and she pressed a hand to the glass of the pod. The bird lighted on her hand and it sang.

It sang and it sang and it sang, and the blue and sunset orange of its wings started to spread to Angela’s hand. Her skin glowed, and suddenly her exhaustion was gone. She didn’t know what she was doing, but at the same time she knew exactly what to do.

She opened the cryopod.

She put her hand on his marred chest.

The bird sang.

And he glowed.

Of course she couldn’t heal him completely. Not even a Genius could do that. But it was a start. Just enough for them to perform the extensive surgery that gave him a second life. He wasn’t fully human anymore, people lamented. They’d made him half omnic, he’d be hated and scorned everywhere.

Angela knew what they didn’t.

He had never been just human, had he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genius used to be more of a sort of supernatural thing. Like people weren't geniuses, people were gifted with genius. Kinda like the Greek muses.
> 
> If you are any sort of creative person, you should watch this TED Talk: https://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius


	10. One Hundred Degrees, Celsius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji is a horrible little brother and Lúcio arrives at Gibraltar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally summer break. Ha ha. I'm dead inside.

Genji hadn’t been this amused since the time a squirrel stole his master’s prayer orbs. He’d nearly forgotten how much Hanzo muttered to himself, and how absolutely nonsensical and _ridiculous_ his older brother could be.

Genji wouldn’t be much of a pesky younger brother if he didn’t know Hanzo had gone to Jesse’s room after the meeting and had stay far longer than necessary. The next morning, Winston had asked for volunteers for a _recruitment_ mission of all things, and Jesse had jumped at it. Genji could easily guess why: keep busy enough and it’s easier to ignore whatever you’re avoiding. And if that really was Gabriel Reyes working for Talon… than Jesse probably had a whole lot he wanted to avoid.

But apparently so did Hanzo.

He refused to say anything about what had happened. When Genji pointed out that returning a hat didn’t need to take nearly an hour, Hanzo had called him a foolish youth. Now his older brother was pacing the training room muttering in Japanese, firing arrows with way more anger than necessary.

“ _…not know?_ ” Hanzo muttered. “ _Or…recognize…_ ”

Who doesn’t know what? Genji wondered. Odds were that Hanzo was muttering about Jesse (because really, Hanzo was not as mysterious as he thought he was), but what did Jesse not know? Besides, you know, the obvious.

“ _Idiot…if he doesn’t…_ ”

Genji grinned. Was Hanzo _worried_? Oh, this was priceless.

Genji leapt down from his perch above the training dummies. Despite his silent landing, Hanzo whirled on him, arrow notched. “ _Careful with that,_ ” Genji teased.

Hanzo glared, lowering the bow before turning back around.

“ _Why so worried, brother?_ ” Genji asked, leaning against the wall. “ _Jesse can handle himself, you know._ ”

An arrow flew in a perfect arch, still piercing straight through the dummies head. “ _Why do you insist on pointing out the obvious?_ ” Hanzo replied.

“ _I felt a responsibility to try and save the training machines from your anger._ ”

“ _I am not_ angry.”

“ _So it_ is _worry, then._ ”

“ _Absurd,_ ” Hanzo scoffed. “ _I do not worry for grown men._ ”

Genji was glad he was wearing his mask, because the grin on his face would’ve gotten him an arrow to the gut. “ _Perhaps not for grown men, but for a certain man_.”

Hanzo let go of the bowstring too early and the arrow whirled off path, collapsing to the ground far too soon. His face twitched, briefly collapsing into unobscured worry before switching back to cold anger. “ _One should not distract oneself with work, as McCree is doing._ ”

“ _Why, brother, I never took you for a hypocrite._ ”

A sonic arrow—non-lethal but painful—struck the wall two inches from Genji’s head. He broke into laughter.

“ _Leave me be, fool,_ ” Hanzo hissed.

Genji threw his hands in the air in surrender, barely containing his laughter. Before another arrow could fly at him, he sprinted out of the training room.

Holy shit, he was _definitely_ telling Jesse about this when he got back.

* * *

McCree had always known he was a chatterbox; he’d certainly been told as much. Over time, he’d learned to take some pride in his ability to keep a conversation going way past its death. He could wear down wills of steel by sheer force of annoyance.

But this guy.

This kid was a whole new level.

Lúcio Correia dos Santos could _not_ shut the hell up.

He talked the whole flight back, alternating between sitting and skating around (which Winston did not appreciate). He talked about how cool it was when Tracer first contacted him, expressing her admiration for his actions and music. He chatted about how crazy it was to meet all of them in person, and that Overwatch was back together. He worried aloud if his explanation for his absence would work or not.

And he kept calling McCree _Eastwood._

“Not my name, kid,” McCree told him for the millionth time. But Lúcio was an unstoppable force.

“—really hope we can all get along because I’m so excited to join you guys and I want it to work out because I think I can help you and you can help me and WOW is that Spain already?”

Finally, some punctuation. Taking the slight pause in the kid’s prattling as an escape, McCree slipped away to the front of the ship.

“How much longer ‘till touchdown?” he asked Tracer.

She smiled at him. “Getting an earful back there, dear?”

McCree sighed. “Makes me feel guilty for all the times I’ve done that to anyone else.”

“At least he has enthusiasm,” Tracer said. “Now get back to your seat, we’re descending.”

With a groan, McCree returned to his seat. Someone had managed to get Lúcio to sit down, too, though his legs bounced and he was humming an incomprehensible tune. McCree’s teeth itched for a cigar to chew. He settled for his lip.

Shit. Now that the kid had finally shut up, McCree wished he would keep chattering. With the relative silence and inactivity, there was nothing left to think about other than yesterday. Reyes, of course, was haunting the back of his mind. But more prominent than him was Hanzo Shimada’s sudden display of compassion.

McCree had nearly thought the man was avoiding him. He was polite enough when they had to interact, but was a needle in a haystack otherwise. Genji said it was just the way Hanzo was, aloof and distant, but that hadn’t assuaged McCree’s worry that he’d forever fucked up any potential friendship with the archer by hunting him down in Japan.

God, McCree really was just an impulsive kid himself, wasn’t he? He was in no place to call Lúcio one. McCree had grown too used to doing everything on his own terms, which meant getting out and seeing things with his own two his eyes, dealing with the world with his own two hands and gun. It had been a damn blessing he’d been recruited for Blackwatch and not Overwatch, because he’d’ve been kicked out within the month. Blackwatch was stricter than anyone else when it got down to the dirty details, and if you ever disobeyed a direct order, there were consequences that would make anyone think twice. But in the end, it let Reyes and his soldiers handle things outside of Overwatch’s public image, and that meant that people like McCree could do what they do best — shoot first, ask questions later. So that’s what he’d gone and done.

McCree sighed. It was a terrible habit he’d need to outgrow. It’d kept him alive when he was on the run, but if he was going to be working with the science monkey and the good doctor, he’d need to be a bit more kosher. Ask questions first, shoot second.

Which he’d really failed at doing in the case of Hanzo.

The ship’s touchdown was smooth as butter. Nothing less from Lena Oxton. Mercy directed Lúcio off the ship with a patient smile, followed by Winston, who was clearly itching to explain what joining Overwatch would really mean, but the kid kept talking over him.

Tracer found McCree still in his seat. “Didn’t get much sleep?” she asked.

“Suppose,” McCree said.

Tracer’s soft smile turned into a smirk. “Care to tell me why?”

McCree narrowed his eyes. “What’s that smug look about?”

Her hands flew up in mock innocence. “Why, I have no idea what you mean, Jesse. This is just my face.”

“Right, I forgot what a little shit you are,” he said. She scoffed good-heartedly at his jab. He pushed himself up with a yawn and a stretch, bones popping with age he didn’t want to admit. “Hey, Lena…” McCree said.

Tracer froze instantly at hearing her real name from McCree. The smirk disappeared and she pushed her goggles up.

But he’d already lost the nerve to talk to her about Reyes. “…nevermind,” he finished.

Her expression dropped into a pout. “Don’t leave a gal hanging!” she complained. “Seriously, Jesse McCree, what’s going on? If something’s wrong, you can tell me, you know? I’m your friend.”

Her big doe eyes dripped with sincerity. McCree smiled at her. “Ain’t nothin’, sweet stuff. My mind was just wanderin’.”

“In that case, I do hope you find it soon.”

“Don’t sass me.”

She gave a true smile, more calm than her regular, gleeful ones. Then she was gone, blinking off the ship to catch up with the Lúcio tour group. McCree’s own smile fell in her absence. The distraction of the mission could only last so long, and now, empty and alone on the ship, McCree couldn’t draw it out any longer.

Not that it had been much of a distraction anyways. Who was he kidding? His mind was a boiling pot of a thousand screaming thoughts, and he couldn’t make head or tail of any of them. At least during a mission he had _some_ objective, something that _had_ to be done and _could_ be done and _would_ get done, all quick and distinct and black and white. Sometimes what you thought was black ends up actually white and vice versa, but that was the only confusion out there.

Back at Gibraltar, on the other hand, his head felt like it would boil over.

Back here, there was space for memories to come back.

Back here, there was a certain someone he didn’t know what to think of.

Dammit, he really needed his cigars.

Did he hate McCree? Was he indifferent? Did he like him at all, or was it just cordial professionalism? McCree usually didn’t care if people liked him or not, even if he had to work with them, so long as they would keep to the job. But for some reason, he wanted Hanzo to like him.

McCree disembarked the ship slowly, letting his spurs clink in a steady rhythm.  He could hear the voices of Tracer and Lúcio and Winston coming from the mess hall, and turned in the opposite direction. He was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to stare at his ceiling, wrapped in the heavy smoke of one of his last cigars. Maybe then he’d have the energy to go to the practice range or something. He felt like he shouldn’t be lying around listlessly.

He nearly walked straight into Zenyatta, who side-stepped (or side-hovered?) out of the way at the last minute. One of the pray orbs smacked McCree in the nose and he cursed.

“Sorry there, Zen,” he said, holding his nose gingerly. “I’m so tired my eyes just glazed over.”

The monk looked at him, and McCree wished that he had any expression, any at all. But of course the metal didn’t move. “It is alright,” Zenyatta said. “But is your nose hurt?”

McCree waved his free hand dismissively. “S’fine.”

“In that case, may I point you in the direction of Genji? He seemed excited to tell you something upon your return.”

Well, he had no idea what that could be about. “If our little cyborg wanted to talk to me so bad, why didn’t he just wait around the hanger?”

Zenyatta shrugged. “Perhaps he guessed that you might not be in the mood to talk to him directly after a mission. But if you are, he should be on the roof.”

McCree nodded, and Zenyatta gave one of his spiritual greetings, and floated on. His nose pulsed with dull pain, but the curiosity of what Genji wanted to say was stronger than his desire to sleep. Making a pit stop at his room to pick up his last box of cigars, he headed to the roof.

Genji sat on the edge of the roof, helmet completely off, exposing spiked black hair tipped with lime green that ruffled with the sea breeze. His legs were crossed in a knot, and his hands were resting lightly on his knees. As soon as McCree took a step towards him, the hands flipped, and Genji turned to McCree with a half-robotic smile.

“How was the mission?” Genji asked.

McCree sighed over dramatically, taking out a cigar and lighting it. The smoke filled him with warmth and haze. “That kid, Lúcio Something-a-rather, is like a five year old at Disneyland.”

“Now you know how the rest of us feel,” Genji said.

“Give me some credit. I haven’t been that chatty is ages,” McCree said. He strolled up to the edge of the roof and sat, one knee bent up to support his metal arm, the other dangling off. “Zen kindly informed me you had something you wanted to tell me.”

Genji’s dark eyes flashed with glee, and his smile immediately turned mischievous. “Tell me, Jesse McCree, what do you think of my brother?”

That was definitely… not where McCree had expected this conversation to go. “Uh, well, he’s a lot quieter than you, for sure,” McCree started. “Not particularly friendly, neither, but frankly I’m just glad he’s not tryin’ to kill me. I’d probably deserve it, considerin’ how I first treated him.”

“Ah, right, when you went to ‘have a little talk with him.’”

“Yup. He accepted my apology though, so hopefully I’m not going wake up one mornin’ with an arrow to my neck.”

There was a moment of silence as McCree drew a long breath around his cigar. Genji nudged him with his elbow. “You definitely won’t,” he said. McCree gave him a questioning look, and Genji joyfully continued: “While you were off on the mission, I came across my brother in the training room. By itself, that is not abnormal, as he has always been a perfectionist. But he was muttering to himself, something he only does when he is, er, _anxious_.”

“So your brother has anxiety. We’re all some level of messed up ‘round here,” McCree said. He himself certainly was all kinds of messed up.

Genji held up a shushing finger. “Not so fast, cowboy. It’s _what_ he was muttering about that’s important.” The shit-eating smile broke into a grin, the kind of grin that only a younger sibling can properly do. “He was worrying about _you_.”

McCree froze, hand stopping mid air on its way to his cigar. Quickly, he recovered from the shock and pulled the cigar out.

“So,” Genji continued, “I ask you, McCree, why would my brother be worrying about you?”

“Well…” McCree started. He stopped. What should he say? Did he know why Hanzo did _anything_? “‘Suppose it’s ‘cause I… I told him all about Reyes.”

The grin fell to a small smile.

McCree continued. “I spilled a little more than a meant to. I was just going to say somethin’ simple about how Reyes gave me a chance to be something good, and I kinda gave him the whole story about how I got to Overwatch. Hanzo was a good listener, so maybe that’s why. Didn’t say much at the time, so I figured… I don’t know, that he was just bein’ polite. Didn’t think he’d _worry_ ‘bout me.”

Genji sighed. “When we were children and we still got along, I used to tell Hanzo everything. In part because he was my older brother, but also because he’s always been a good listener. But he would never tell me anything. He’d just try to solve all my problems on top of his own, without anyone’s help. I found it infuriating.” Genji grabbed his mask from beside him and pulled it over his green and black hair. The visor clipped into place and the green V softly glowed. “Time has not done well for my brother. While it healed me, it festered his guilt into his very soul. I hope it would not be too presumptuous of me to ask if you could keep help me make sure he does not… risk himself.”

McCree wanted to point out that just being in Overwatch was a risk to all of them. But he knew that wasn’t what Genji meant, so he just nodded. Genji bowed in that strange monk way, and walked silently off the roof, leaving McCree with a cloud of cigar smoke and thoughts.

* * *

Something unnatural was up with the old Blackwatch commander, that much was obvious. But did Angela have to call a secret meeting over it?

Genji lounged in his seat, feet propped up on the large table. Hanzo sat across from him, occasionally giving Genji’s posture a stiff look. Still so prim and proper. Genji purposefully made his posture worse.

“I know I’m not an expert in this stuff,” Angela said. “Even knowing about you two, and having a Genius, I have practically no experience with the magical world. That’s why I asked to speak to you two.”

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. Surely Angela’s Genius wasn’t a surprise to him. Genji could sense it from across the compound, and he’d always had a weaker connection to their inherent magic than his brother.

“I don’t know anything about smoke people things,” Genji said. “But I never really paid attention to the non-dragon stuff.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Hanzo muttered.

Angela clicked her tongue. She still didn’t like Hanzo. “Well?” she said, crossing her arms. “Do you know what is going on with Gabriel Reyes?”

Hanzo’s eyes closed as he turned to his memories. It was a habit he’d had since they were kids; said it helped him recall the memory easier. “ _Shusa_ ,” he said. “An aberration.” He opened his eyes slowly and turned to Genji. “They are like us, but their shift becomes involuntary, and sometimes permanent.”

“No, if Reyes had been like us, I would’ve know. Angela would’ve known. He was a normal person,” Genji said.

“I did not say I _knew_ if he was an aberration. But it is the only possibility I know of,” Hanzo said.

Angela glanced at the space above her right shoulder, where, Genji knew, her Genius usually sat. “Is it not possible for him to have been… _made_ into whatever he is? Artificially?”

Both the brothers stared at her in surprise.

“No—“

“It’s not possible—“

“That would require technology… power… that would be—“

“Impossible!”

Angela frowned at them. “Impossible like how it was impossible for you to be saved, Genji?”

Oh. Okay, she had a point there. Hanzo stiffened at the mention of Genji’s near death, but his arguments died, too.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since this little bird found me,” Angela continued, “it’s that the impossible is rarely that. You say his condition matches the definition of an aberration.” She pulled out her chair and sat down, leaning forward with a grave face. “Tell me everything you know about them.”


	11. Tastes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst kind of a secret is the obvious kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I've been terrible at updating, I'm sorry! I haven't felt any drive to write lately.... but uh here, chapter 11, or something.

McCree had stayed on the roof long after Genji had left, until his leg had gone numb and his cigar had gone out. The stump of his arm had gone numb from the changing pressure of the air. And he would’ve sat out there longer, except that Reinhardt had found him, and that man is a one-man siege machine.

Which is how McCree found himself sat in the middle of a feast, whipped up by Torbjörn himself, to celebrate the arrival of Lúcio. Between the musician, Tracer, and Reinhardt, there was enough noise to fill a stadium. Why was McCree considered the chatty one?

Mercy and the Shimada brothers entered, later than even McCree. Mercy looked deep in thought, but at the sight of Fareeha, she easily snapped back to the present. Genji bounded forward, his plate mask nowhere to be seen and his hair, with barely any green left, flying free. Then he froze, momentum killed in a second like he’d hit a wall. Mercy, walking with Fareeha and not paying attention to Genji, suddenly stopped with a puzzled look. She glanced around, eyes taking in Genji’s reaction and then landing on Lúcio.

What was with them? Had they forgotten about Lúcio’s arrival already? That would be ridiculous. Anyways, the way they had stopped so abruptly had seemed more like a gut reaction, an instinct. Like stopping before a slamming door can hit you in the face.

Genji blinked a few times and continued forward. He smiled and laughed and introduced himself, and no one questioned his odd behavior. Mercy told Fareeha she’d thought she’d forgotten something, and giggled, and the two continued. Perhaps it was nothing, then. They had come in together—maybe they both thought they’d forgotten something.

But Hanzo… Hanzo hadn’t walked a single step closer to the table. He stood where Genji and Mercy had left him, hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes narrowed and glaring directly at Lúcio, like the man had personally wronged him.

Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.

With two plates full of food, McCree courteously dismissed himself from the table. The gap he left was quickly filled by Mercy. She caught his eye, and he tried to silently ask her what was up. Her eyes were a mix of things he didn’t understand. He flashed her a smile.

Hanzo didn’t seem to notice him until he was within arm’s length. The archer’s glare snapped to McCree, and then to the food he was carrying. McCree offered one of the plates. “Hungry, partner?”

“What do you want?” Hanzo asked.

Ah, he was in a bad mood. “Tryin’ to be considerate,” McCree said. “Look, I’m not gonna pry on a guy as prickly as yourself, but even someone half blind could tell that you don’t want to go over there for the life of ya. Whatever the reason, I figured you’d still like some of Torbjörn’s prize-winnin’ food, so I brought some over. Ya hungry or not?”

For a moment Hanzo just stared at him and McCree wondered if he would do something petty, like flip the plate out of his hand. The image almost made him laugh. Hanzo took the plate, eyeing the food, and said, “Cutlery.”

Cutlery? “Oh,” McCree said. So he had forgotten something. “Here. You can take mine.” He handed over his fork and knife, both relatively clean. All he had on his plate was finger-food, anyways. Hanzo was staring at him again. “Unless you’re afraid of germs or somethin’,” McCree continued. “I promise I’m healthy as a horse.”

Hanzo snorted with what could almost be amusement. “I am not a child,” he said. McCree couldn’t help but smile. Then he caught a glimpse of white bandages under the hem of Hanzo’s shirt. Shit, his injury. McCree had forgotten about it, what with the mission and all. And Genji had said Hanzo had been in the training room, which Mercy had specifically told him not to do.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

Hanzo stiffened. _Guilty_.

“Thank you for the food, McCree,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He turned and walked out of the mess hall, metal soles clinking softly against the tile. McCree would just have to keep a better eye on him, make sure he didn’t work his shoulder anymore.

_But he would never tell me anything. He’d just try to solve all my problems on top of his own, without anyone’s help_.

Something was going on with those three. Something had been going on since the very start, really, and apparently now Lúcio was related. How had Genji betrayed his family? How had Mercy managed to save him? Why did Hanzo always stare at McCree like he was an impossible puzzle? What in god’s name had happened to Reyes? And why had the two Shimadas seemed more curios than surprised at the news about Reyes? Everyone else couldn’t shut up about how impossible it was, what was going on, how could he turn to smoke, etc. But the brothers had just sat in thought, with all the wrong looks of confusion on their faces.

McCree frowned. He never did like secrets much, especially when they were so obvious, yet just out of reach. Goddammit.

He hurried back to the table and asked Torbjörn about dessert. With a little sweet talk, he relented and handed over half a dozen of his legendary princess cakes—sweet little round pastries made of the lightest angel cake and sugariest cream, covered in smooth marzipan. They were small enough to eat in one bite, but often that was enough to send Tracer into a sugar coma. They were exactly what McCree would need for this mission.

Now, he’d just have to wait.

* * *

As a doctor, Mercy fell into two stereotypical habits: eating healthy and rarely sleeping. She avoided coffee at night because she constantly told herself she’d go to sleep in 5 minutes, though she usually ended up passing out at her desk. The only reason McCree knew all of this was because of Fareeha, who would complain about her girlfriend to him.

So McCree found Angela working in the med bay at 10 PM, sorting through files. He slunk up behind her—he was always surprised with how quiet he could be if he wasn’t wearing his boots—and caught a glimpse over her shoulder.

_Reyes, Ga—_

“Jesse! Lord, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Angela exclaimed, shoving the file away from her.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to be so quiet,” McCree said. “What’re you doin’ up so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“My sleep schedule hasn’t been right since my ma enforced a bed time. But you, Miss Doctor, I’d expect better from.”

Angela smiled at him fondly. “What are you doing in the med bay? Shoot yourself in the foot?”

“No, not yet,” McCree assured. “No, just bringin’ my favorite doctor a midnight treat.” With that, he produced the princess cakes with a flourish.

The fond smile turned into one of exasperation. “Jesse…” she sighed. “You know I—“

“Nope, I’m not gonna hear any excuse, because I had to beg Torbjörn on my hands and knees—my hands and knees, Angela—for these, and we are going to enjoy them, like two friends should.”

As he took the seat next to her, placing the plate of cookies right between them, she took one and broke it in half, and then in half again. “If I didn’t know better, Jesse McCree,” she started, “I’d say you were trying to bribe me.” She met his eyes with a look that promised swift retribution should he try anything funny. Like he would doubt her intelligence.

“Oh, sweetheart, you wound me,” he drawled.

She scoffed. “You think I’ll talk easier because I’m tired. Well, it won’t work.”

“That would imply that you have something to spill.”

She froze, and quickly tried to cover it. Good lord, Angela was not a good actor. “Of… of course I do! Patients’ information! Doctors have lots of secrets by the nature of the profession.”

McCree raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“And—and if I did have other secrets, which I don’t, princess cakes aren’t enough to make me spill. Nothing is. I take the trust placed in me very seriously.” She had eaten a whole cake by now, in quarter bites. She rubbed her temples and pushed the plate away.

“No worries, Angela. I’m not askin’ ya to betray anyone’s trust,” McCree said. “I just wanted your personal, medically informed opinion on… on Reyes.”

Angela’s eyes immediately pooled with sadness. Her hand drifted back to where she’d tried to hide Reyes’s file. She gently pulled it out, but kept it closed. Her mouth opened and then closed. “What do _you_ think?” she said.

“I… I don’t rightly know, Ang. Mostly I’ve just been thinkin’ about what could’ve gotten him to work for _Talon_ , what could’ve gotten him to aim his damn gun at my head. The whole smokey business and survivin’ the explosion… I have no clue. But I don’t have a clue about a lot of things,” he admitted, looking at her expectantly.

She clutched the file and looked up. “I think… I think there are some things in this world beyond you and me. Things we could dismiss as magic.” She met McCree’s gaze and smiled. “Isn’t that the whole point of science? To discover what we don’t know?”

“Speaking of things we don’t know,” McCree said, subtle passing her another cake. “What’s with you a Fareeha?”

Red blossomed from Angela’s neck and she bolted up. “That’s enough chatter for one night!” she said, pushing McCree towards the door. “You really should be fixing your sleep schedule, so as your doctor, I’m ordering you to go to bed as soon as possible. Go!”

McCree laughed but let Angela push him out. “Okay, okay. You get yourself to bed soon, too, sugar.”

“I will!” she said too loudly. She closed the door and locked it.

McCree’s smile turned into a smirk as he made his way to his room. He jammed his still broken door shut with a chair and sat on his bed with his new reading material.

Angela would flay him when she found it missing, but for now, McCree had Gabriel Reyes’s personal medical history in his hands.

* * *

Most of it was dull. Average, expected things. Blood pressures and cholesterol levels and other things, all completely normal and healthy. Like anyone in Overwatch, Reyes had had his fair share of injuries, and a lot of them McCree remembered. So nothing in the file was new.

Except the last two sheets.

One was the autopsy report—striking because there’d been no body to recovery, and thus, no actual autopsy. Well, there’d been _some_ body (which was news to McCree). A severed foot had been found, blackened and charred almost beyond recognition. The report, all in Mercy’s curly handwriting, questioned how only the foot survived, and what happened to the rest of the body.

_Suppose we've figured that mystery out now_ , McCree thought.

Then there was the last page, the most recent. It wasn’t an official form, but a sheet of gridded carbon paper, covered with lines of Mercy’s handwriting, becoming more loopy and less legible as it went. Arrows crisscrossed the page, and near the bottom Mercy had switched to writing in German, her mother tongue. A true sign of exhaustion.

But what was in English… hoo boy.

> _ Gabriel survived.  ~~ Maybe Jack did? ~~ _
> 
> _ Smoke monster =  shusa /aberration, involuntary shifting. _
> 
> _ But he wasn’t one before. H insists there’s only one kind of aberration that can be created (lycanthropes), otherwise they must be born as some sort of Shifter. G =/= lycanthrope. _
> 
> _ Talon developed new technology to create aberrations? Studying Shifters? _
> 
> _ H says that if his existence gets out, old families will get involved. Like the Shimadas. Do we want their help? _

Aberrations? Shifters? What in heaven’s name was Angela writing about?

_H_ had to be Hanzo. And he said that if Gabriel’s existence—presumably, as an aberration, whatever that was—was made known, that old families, i.e. the Shimadas, would “get involved”.

So McCree had been right. The Shimada brothers and Angela were involved in something… something beyond him. McCree didn’t want to say _supernatural_ , because he worked with a talking gorilla for god’s sake. For all he knew at this point, it was all just some crazy science stuff—Angela had written “developing new technology” which implied something _science-y_.

Her notes also implied that “old families” were involved in this secret stuff, too. The Shimadas had something to do with Shifters and aberrations.

What if that was what Genji had been a liability to? This secret? What kind of tech became a family secret that could warrant murder?

_I think… I think there are some things in this world beyond you and me. Things we could dismiss as magic._

Maybe it was something superna—

No, this was all ridiculous. Sure, McCree worked with a scientist gorilla and a gal who leapt through time on a regular business, but that was all numbers and physics and psychology. Time travel was a mathematical possibility and gorillas were close enough to humans. But _lycanthropes_? Whatever was going on with Reyes turning into smoke had to have some explanation. Something like Tracer’s coronal displacement.

McCree tossed the file under his bed. He tilted his hat over his eyes, too mentally exhausted to bother to turn off the lights, and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has turned into "can McCree figure out what the fuck is going on?" which is not what I wanted but that's how the chapter insisted on going. 
> 
> It's hard to keep in check what McCree does and does not know, and what connections he'd be able to make. "People see what they want to see" and we already know Jess can and will make up any excuse for the inexplicable. Like magical childhood friends.


End file.
